


Black Coral

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Little Mermaid, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Late Victorian, Slow Burn, content warning: drowning, don't think too hard about the Victorian part it's mostly for Aesthetic, dread shark shenanigans, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 153,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no answers for what became of the ship—the pride of the navy, lost on a clear night with no storms, on a route the crew traversed a hundred times before. What men survived the wreck offer little better than folk tales—singing in the night, the soft and high laughter of a woman over the side of the ship.</p><p>But then, one day, <i>she</i> washes ashore, marked and alone. And she can offer no story to explain her presence - but Solas knows there is more that lurks below the surface than what is swept to the sand after a storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Washes Ashore

Solas tries to tell himself that it is _not_ nostalgia that leads him to the place they found Commander Rutherford two weeks ago. Washed ashore after the storm, babbling about a strange woman and a song, his eyes glazed over from more than hunger, his face flushed from more than exposure.

They carried him away, the physician soothing him as best he could, but Solas lingered, then; casting his gaze over his shoulder to the push and pull of the tide. His bare toes _just_ beyond its reach—feeling the movement of the water in his bones all the same.

He is the only one who saw the footprints—the heavy push of a heel digging into the sand, water rushing into the only scars in a wide stretch of unmarked beach. Leading back out to sea.

 The Commander’s deliriousness wore off after a few days, after a few solid meals and plenty of water and shade. “I remember... a woman?” Solas overheard him say when they allowed him to leave his room. Confiding in the Ambassador in the library, its windows open to the ocean air. Solas had been enjoying the breeze, even his gaze turned away from the book in his hands to the glitter of late afternoon sun on the water.

“Did she pull you from the water?” Josephine prompted, after a painful silence.

When Cullen finally answered, he could only offer a single word. “No.”

Cullen has no answers for what became of the ship—the pride of the navy, lost on a clear night with no storms, on a route the crew traversed a hundred times before. What other men survived the wreck only offer little more than Cullen—singing in the night, the soft and high laughter of a woman over the side of the ship.

General consensus is that there was too much drinking. But Solas can feel the pull of the ocean in his bones again, after so long without it—and he knows there are more things lurking beneath the waters than what washes to shore after a storm.

So one afternoon he cites a need for inspiration—takes his sketchbook and his hat, adjusts the high collar of his shirt, and wanders into the city as he has a hundred times before. With his plain clothing and pointed ears, few take stock of him—although he is recognised now, he notes with a twist of unease when there are shopkeepers who wave at him in passing. There is no open suspicion in their eyes, however, and he waves back with an ease he does not quite feel.

He passes through the markets of the city, his toes bare to the earth beneath his feet— _grounding_ him, on a day and in a place where the smell of salt is so thick in the air, he can taste it on his lips.

He almost did not accept this position, due to its proximity to the sea; every day, it is harder to remind himself why.

No one takes much notice when he leaves the city proper, passing through the gates with barely a nod to the city guard. He walks the road that will take him along the oceanfront, near the beach—he smiles when he sees children playing in the water while their older siblings dig for clams and other treasures. As he walks, he watches the sunlight on the road dance as the trees overhead are stirred by the breeze—its movement familiar and foreign in equal parts.

It is late in the afternoon before he finds the stretch of sand he is looking for—a protected little cove, sheltered from wind and the more furious crash of ocean waves from the storms that plague this region in winter. And, perhaps more telling, a curve to the cliff that prevents any from seeing it from the road above.

It is hot enough that he has foregone his jacket altogether, so he slings his vest and footwraps over his arm and rolls up the legs of his pants, then his shirt sleeves. He tugs at the collar but leaves it be—he can still hear carriages on the road above, and the warmth of the sun and his proximity to the ocean aside he is not truly alone.

But aside from the distant hoofbeats on the dirt road, the rumble of wooden carriages and the occasional travelling song, he walks along the beach in peace; well away from the wet line and scattered debris left behind by high tide. It is—peaceful, he thinks. He has been away from the ocean for so long, has been cooped up in rooms with paints and fine wine and old parchment for so many days and months and years; he has forgotten what it means to walk like this. A different kind of solitude—less troublesome, he thinks, than the flicker of flames on nearly spent candles.

But when he rounds the corner, he finds he is not alone.

There is a woman, splayed out naked on the beach like a carcass. The precise colour of her dark skin obscured by blistering, by dried sea salt, and by great tracks of blood—dried and fresh.

He is running to her without thinking—and in a heartbeat he kneels in the sand beside her, his belongings scattered about him. He yanks at the buttons of his shirt, too frantic in this moment to fumble with them correctly as his eyes search her skin for her injuries. All across her back over and over— _lashings_ , he realises, seeing how the flesh has begun to fester in the sun.

He hears a wagon rattling overhead—opens his mouth to cry for help—but then he sees her _vallaslin_.

Oh, but they are such a perfect copy of the ones in his memory. He almost reaches to touch the curling lines that adorn her shoulder; deep blue, imitating the frail branching corals that sway in the currents. Like veins, they spread across the surface of her flesh, marred by the lashes across her back where they would cluster together in the small of her back before branching out again over her legs. _Antipatharia_. From the deepest waters coral grows—so rarely even brought to the surface.

She is barely breathing. He blinks away the sinking feeling in his stomach, and examines her wounds further. Not from a whip, but from some creature—there are marks from barbs, and more than one buried in her flesh.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he whispers. Startles himself by speaking a language he has not uttered in—

But she is barely breathing, and this is not the time for self recrimination. He spares a glance upward, at where the cliff obscures the road. He is certain that even were she to survive the trip back to the city, she would not survive the bumbling attempts made to heal her, modern medicine being what it is.

He makes certain no one is looking—spends unbearable heartbeats watching, listening, waiting. There is only the sound of the ocean, a dull roar in his ears and a rattling in his bones; her shallow breaths, her face obscured by the wild mess made of her red, red hair.

When he is certain they are alone, he stands and approaches the water.

It is almost as if the tide rushes up to greet him—his heart _leaps_ in his chest as the foam crashes against his ankles. His blood rushes—he hears that old song, the drum of his heart against his chest to match a melody that waxes and wanes, and he can scarcely _breathe_ for how quickly it rushes through him, over him.

It almost pulls him in, all over again. Instead, he kneels in the surf and gathers water in his cupped hands, where it begins to glow.

He returns to the woman on the beach, brimming with power—and he’d _forgotten_ what it felt like, to be so full. For it to be such a simple thing, to kneel beside her and trickle water from his hands—whiter than seafoam, glowing and glittering as it catches the sun—over her wounds, over the curve of her back and the hard lines of her shoulders. To watch with fascination as blood, barbs, grit, and sand are all washed away, as blisters are soothed and flesh mends itself together before his eyes. Nothing but pale scars, raised skin, to show she was even hurt.

So simple, he thinks, dizzy at the sight. How could he ever—?

It leaves him in a rush with the pull of the tide, with the last drop of water from his fingers, and he gasps at the emptiness in his chest, the hollow ache of his heart at its sudden absence.

Her breathing has evened out—her obvious injuries tended to, she is in no immediate distress. Solas shakes off the after effects of connecting with the ocean after so long without it—and the immense headache that is already building—and examines her more closely.

There is kelp about her neck, he realises, under the cover of her hair. Not so tightly that she can’t breathe, gauging from the steady rise and fall of her back. But he frowns nonetheless, and reaches out to remove it—to see if there are more injuries covered underneath.

He barely moves her hair before she jerks awake. She claws his extended hand away, sharp nails leaving long, shallow gashes in his skin as she retreats.

He thinks she will move toward the ocean, toward the safety of the open sea—where he would not be able to chase her. But she moves towards the stone cliff instead—half-dragging herself up the beach, her legs kicking strong but slow to respond.

Her hand closes around a knife made from a sharpened shell— _how had he missed that_ —and she points it at him as she retreats, her eyes flitting from him to his surroundings. Her mouth opens, as if to issue a warning or a threat, only to snap shut again without uttering a sound.

He watches them narrow in confusion when she realises he is alone. Then her attention turns to his clothes, to his half-unbuttoned shirt, to the sketchbook and charcoal scattered in the sand behind him. His hands obediently raised, an attempt to make her feel in control. Her eyes search his, then, open hostility shifting to curiosity, and he meets her gaze as evenly as she can. She has made no attempt to cover herself—there are few places he can look at her without being indecent.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, gently, and she stiffens at the words. Her eyes widen, then narrow again—he wonders if he’s made a mistake, then, but she does not react further.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” he ventures, wondering if she even understands Trade. “I only wished to see if you were hurt.”

She raises a brow at that, and one corner of her lips twitches upwards in the beginning of a wry smirk. But it falters, and she straightens a little. She shifts her weight so she is no longer leaning on her empty hand, and then she reaches behind herself to touch the small of her back, gingerly.

Solas watches her expression—she does not believe the first tentative touches of her fingertips. Wide-eyed, incredulous, he watches as she presses her whole palm against her back, his eyes only flicking down once, to the hard lines of her stomach, to confirm she is pressing her hand to the newly formed, pale scars there.

She stares at him suspiciously. Opens her mouth, then closes it gain, her nose wrinkling in obvious frustration. She exhales sharply through her nose, then gestures to him, the scattered pages behind him, then back to him again. A question.

“I am an artist,” he tells her. “I came here to draw, and found you instead.”

She gestures to his open shirt.

He keeps his gaze firmly on hers, and allows himself to look a little bashful. “I meant to cover you.”

After a long moment, she accepts that explanation with a hesitant nod. She closes her eyes, then, and he watches the tip of the knife begin to drop, slowly. Then her shoulders fall and she begins to sway forward, then back, then—

The knife hits the sand, but he catches her before she does. She stiffens at the contact, and she makes some attempt to fight him off. But she is clearly exhausted—even with the healing, he knows she’s lost too much blood to call her truly safe, just yet.

He finishes pulling off his shirt, hurried enough that he forgets about the starched collar, still secured around his neck. The shirt is just long enough to make her at least _decent_ , hurriedly wrapped about her as it is, and she is limp when he lifts her into his arms.

Her eyes snap open when he stands—the green of the seas around Seheron, he thinks—and she shifts in his grip, her fingers curling in his undershirt.

“I have you,” he tells her, softly.

Her head falls forward to rest against his shoulder.

She does not wake when he yells at the sound of the next carriage he hears—halfway up the beach to the road, his belongings scattered behind him in favour of his living burden. Her steady breath warm where his skin is exposed, between his undershirt and the collar.

He calls again, thinking the wagon will keep going as he stumbles up the beach—footing unsteady on the shifting sand. But there is the cry of a horse, and the wagon rumbles to a stop.

Solas scrambles up over the grass—he pays little attention to the faces that gape at him, although he sees hands on weapons, suspicion in their eyes. There is a Qunari riding alongside the wagon, and the others glance at him for direction, so it is he Solas addresses.

 “I found her on the beach,” Solas offers into the silence between them. “She needs a doctor—can you take us to Seahold?”

The Qunari looks down at his burden, his single eye narrowing in consideration. But he does not hesitate—he turns to the human driving the wagon and says, “Krem.”

Krem only nods and jumps off the wagon. He helps Solas load the unknown woman into the wagon. She stirs when they lay her on the rough wooden surface, amidst crates of goods Solas spares no time to even glance at. Her lips tremble, but she does not cry out—she reaches instead, until Solas catches her hand with his.

The Qunari shouts, and with a scream the horses take off down the road, dragging the wagon behind them at a perilous pace.

 

_Thought I had Chuckles pegged,_ Varric thinks to himself as he watches the reclusive artist lift an unconscious, half-naked elven woman out of the back of a wagon.

Not that either elf in question is appropriately dressed, of course. Solas has rolled up the legs of his pants and sacrificed his shirt for the good of a young woman’s dignity. Except, of course, the collar, which is comically still hanging around his neck, delightfully askew. Even from across the courtyard, Varric can tell he’s covered in sand nearly from head to toe—his feet scuff it across the stones as he turns, raising his gaze from the woman in his arms at the shout of his name.

“Solas,” Cullen says again, approaching with the Spymaster hot on his heels, and he seems intent to say more until he catches a look at Solas’ burden. Then he gapes rather openly, instead—either like someone who’s never seen a half-naked woman before, or who never expected _Solas_ to have seen a half-naked woman before.

Varric isn’t sure which he finds more amusing.

“Commander,” Solas says, with remarkable dignity and control for a man standing in his undershirt and rolled up slacks in the middle of a fortress. “She needs—”

“A doctor,” he stammers, “yes.” Then he turns on his heel and yells, “Maker’s breath would one of you send for the physician instead of standing around gawking!”

Nothing gets the soldiers going quite like Rutherford’s barking; they scatter to obey, and although Varric overhears more than one poorly timed comment about _legs_ there is finally the doctor found and a stretcher retrieved. And if there are an absurd number of soldiers carrying it, no one says much of anything.

Varric loses sight of Solas and his mysterious new friend in all the chaos—as if the sheer number of people eager to help have swallowed them whole. It takes some snapping and scolding from the doctor, foul-mouthed and irritable, for the crowd to reel back, a little. Giving her air to breathe.

Varric catches a sight of her, then—prone, head tilted back. Kelp wound around her neck like a scarf belonging to a fine lady. Green so deep it’s almost black against the red of her hair, the copper of her skin—and the blue lines that trail over her cheekbones.

The doctor touches the kelp, frowning.

“She seemed to want that to stay on,” Solas says, and all the noise in the courtyard simply vanishes.

It seems as if everyone hesitates as one. As if every person in the courtyard is pausing to reflect on the authority in the artist’s voice—how each word is clipped, precise. How his voice carries over the din with an ease that simply does not match what they know of the withdrawn, reclusive elf.

It takes a moment, but soon all eyes are on Solas. For his part, he stands unabashed under all the scrutiny. He looks solely at the doctor, a single raised brow the only reaction to an entire courtyard full of people staring blatantly at him.

“Seemed to?” the doctor parrots, his gaze narrowing at he looks Solas up and down. It’s likely they’ve never spoken before this moment.

“She did not speak,” Solas clarifies. As if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I suspect she is mute—perhaps there is an unflattering scar.”

Varric almost laughs aloud—not at Solas. At himself, for getting the man so totally wrong through their limited interactions. That he would draw so much attention to himself to preserve a stranger’s last scrap of dignity—

It’s refreshing, Varric thinks. To be proven wrong about the world every once in a while.

The doctor sighs, then mutters something that, if Varric guesses correctly, is about _the whims of women_.

“Simple case of exposure, I imagine,” he says, looking her over as the soldiers lift the stretcher once more.

Solas looks about to follow as they carry her away—only to be stopped by a word from the Commander, drawing up to his side.

 “Who is she?” Cullen asks.

Solas glances uneasily at the Commander. He straightens his back and folds his hands behind him—very regal looking, for a humble artist.

“I do not know,” Solas answers, clearly uncomfortable. “I only found her on the shore.”

It’s an easy thing to laugh now, to let the incredulity of the situation loose in his voice as he approaches. “Chuckles?” he teases into the now significantly emptier courtyard, and both men turn to face him. “At the beach?”

Cullen looks down at Varric with a scowl—if he thought Curly had a better sense of humour, he _might_ tease the Commander about eyeing his chest hair so seriously. Alright, maybe in most of society the low cut of his shirt is considered, at best, indecent, but considering there was just a woman dragged through in nothing but Solas’ shirt…

“The evidence is right there,” Varric continues, gesturing to Solas’ sand caked feet, “and I _still_ don’t believe it.”

Solas bristles. “I saw an interesting tidal pool there a few weeks ago,” he says. “I hoped to sketch some of the intertidal fauna. You forget that I am _also_ to catalogue the wildlife in the area during my stay, Master Tethras.”

Cullen stiffens at the mention of the time. “You mean she washed ashore where I did?”

“In almost precisely the same spot, yes. I thought it curious—ah.” Solas lifts his hands and looks at himself, as if searching for a set of keys. “Forgive me. In the rush, I left my belongings on the beach. Perhaps if I leave now…”

“I will send a runner,” Leliana interrupts, still hovering just over Cullen’s shoulder. A secret smile on her lips—perfectly happy to have been ignored and forgotten about for so long. “Perhaps we should allow Solas to make himself decent, Commander? Or would you prefer to interrogate him in his underthings and his collar dangling in the wind?”

Solas allows a small, short laugh, as he reaches up and touches the collar. “My apologies. I had not considered…”

Leliana only smiles. “There is a time and a place for etiquette, Solas, and I believe in the case of saving a young woman’s life we can forgive seeing you less than fully dressed.”

So dismissed, Solas nods his thanks to both the Commander and the Spymaster. When he turns to go, Varric falls in step beside him.

Behind them, the Qunari catches Cullen and Leliana’s attention with his deep, booming voice, and Varric takes the opportunity to say, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Perhaps I should be offended, that you think I would leave someone to die alone on the beach. And yet I cannot say that I am thrilled the opportunity has arisen to prove you wrong.”

Varric barks a laugh. “Chuckles. Lifting her up in your arms, giving her the clothes off your back…”

Solas glances down at Varric, a single brow raised. “I presume you have a point?”

“It’s like something out of my novels,” Varric teases as they pass out of the courtyard and into the fortress proper. “Very heroic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I tripped, have an AU.


	2. Making Words

He wakes to a grey morning, the crash of waves following him out of his dreams.

In waking, there is the call of sea birds, the flutter of papers as the wind scatters them across the room. He frowns as he sits, soft blankets falling from his bare chest. He blinks, slowly, at the small desk he keeps by the window—his sketchbook is open, the pages that have torn from it blown all over the floor. He stares as a piece of charcoal rolls off the desk to snap on the cold stone floor. The wooden handles of his paintbrushes rattle in the empty glass jar he left them in yesterday, bristles up—to dry in the sun after cleaning, for a moment. Tidying abandoned for a walk down the shore.

The wind smells like an oncoming storm—traces of magic long forgotten carried off the ocean.

He does not remember opening the window.

A soft voice with a gentle rhythm—lilting a little, echoing a speech pattern Solas has never heard before. “Moving, making words, _look at me I am speaking to you_. Dried and flaking but it has to stay— _don’t touch me_.”

He exhales, slowly. “Cole,” he says, turning.

The young man—barely a man, by any stretch—is standing at the foot of the bed. His pale eyes are gazing somewhere past Solas; out the window, to the white wings of an albatross in the distance. He raises one hand and presses a finger to his chin—pushes in, making a dimple in his pallid flesh.

“She is asking for you, but they do not understand. They aren’t trying to.”

Solas blinks, and Cole is gone.

He runs his hand over his neck. With a curse he throws the blankets off and scrambles to his feet.

He dresses with as much patience as he can muster—it will do him no good to appear dishevelled _now_ , will it—but he still has to check himself in the small mirror he has been provided twice before he is proper. Clean shirt, the collar firmly done, a plain vest of faded green that has been washed a few too many times. The only thing out of the ordinary his footwraps; considered by humans as quaint and outdated at best, most elves forgo them entirely in favour of shoes. More practical as well, for those who work in factories day in and day out.

But Solas prefers his toes bare, even after all these years, and those who live around Seahold are used enough to seeing him dressed as such that it is rarely commented on.

When he is certain that nothing is askew, he unbolts his door and walks down the hall that will take him to the infirmary as quickly as possible.

Perhaps his steps are hurried, perhaps his expression anxious—he passes few people, so early in the morning, but those he does encounter give him odd looks. He is not used to being given much notice in these halls, and he is too focused on appearing as normal as he can to pay much attention to exactly what manner of expressions they might regard him with.

As he nears the infirmary his concern for his own reputation is interrupted by shouting, and the sounds of a scuffle.

“Get the Commander!” the doctor shouts.

He breaks into a run, then, unable to stop himself without an audience to witness it. He nearly skids to a stop before the doorway as someone tears through it. They do not even pause to explain what is going on inside—but Solas hears the shouting, commands for someone to _be still_ , and he collects himself before he steps into the infirmary, hands behind his back.

She is not only awake but standing, climbed to the highest point she can manage to find in the room—the windowsill—clutching the threadbare bedding to her throat in an attempt to cover it, her back pressed to the glass and a surgeon’s knife in her other hand, point facing the doctor. There are two guards approaching her with bully sticks drawn while the doctor retreats, his hands in the air. Scattered about the room are dark green flecks—dried kelp, he thinks.

“Now, miss,” he is saying. “Be reasonable. We are trying to help you.”

She shakes her head furiously. Her eyes are wide with terror—she presses back, and the window _creaks_ as the old wooden frame bears more of her weight. She withdraws the knife long enough to flick at one of her pointed ears with her thumb, then to press her index finger to her chin to make it dimple.

One of the guards makes as if to move, and she points the knife at him. Behind her, Solas can see the window pane shift, as if about to give.

“What are you doing?”

Everyone in the room freezes—even Solas, who slams his mouth so quickly shut after he has spoken that his teeth clack together. He thinks he manages to control his own shock before the guards turn to look at him, but not before her eyes dart up to his.

The hard line of her shoulders relax a little, upon seeing him. He wonders what he has done to earn such regard.

But the doctor and the guards are looking at him, incredulous, and he must answer them.

“She is refusing examination,” the doctor explains.

“She is about to fall backward out a window that is a fifty foot drop above sharp rocks,” Solas snaps. “But you are so wholly concerned with her health I am _certain_ you noticed that.”

The doctor colours. “I’ll have you know—”

“I will listen to any criticism you have to offer at a later date, Doctor. But for now I must ask you all to leave the room.”

Nobody moves. But they do gape at the commanding tone his voice has taken—and Solas will regret that later, but she has not moved back into the room and that window will not support her weight much longer.

“What are you—”

“I will summon you if she requires aid, I promise you.” He allows a short sigh when they _still_ do not comply—frustrated, breathless. “Please. You have tried to speak with her—allow me.”

For a moment, it doesn’t look like anyone in the room will listen to him. He feels himself reaching back, although he stays absolutely still. The window isn’t open but he can hear the blood rushing in his skull like the crash of waves on the shore, like a seashell’s been pressed against his ear. His heartbeat, slow and methodical, heavy in his chest as he waits, pressure building in every vessel of his blood.

The doctor scoffs, and Solas releases a breath. The air in the room returns to normal.

“Fine,” he relents, waving a hand at the guards. “But the Commander will hear about this,” he says, pointing a finger at Solas.

He bows his head graciously and he steps aside, allowing them to pass through the door. Then he closes it behind them—deliberately turning his back to the woman crouched on the windowsill. He stands and stares at the rough wood grains, contemplating the many whorls in the surface.

“I understand your desire to escape,” he tells her, “but you would not survive that fall.”

He supposes waiting for a reply is useless, considering he has effectively blocked any method she has of communicating with him by not facing her. But he hears no sign of movement, so he continues. “If you wish to cover anything on your person, I believe there are bandages in the cabinets to my left.”

She breathes—somewhere in between a gasp and an exhale. There’s no sound to it but the rushing of air through her throat, and he cannot tell what it means. But he hears her bare feet scuffing on stone—hesitantly—and then when he still faces away from her, the creak of the window as she draws away from it.

He listens to the padding of her feet on the hard stone floor, then to the sounds of her rummaging through the cupboards. She seems to stop and start a number of times, and he wonders if he’s imagining the feeling of her eyes on the back of his head.

Eventually, the sound of her rummaging stops, and he listens to the soft sounds of her calloused feet making their way back to the bed. The creak of the cot, the shifting of blankets. Then another extended silence—followed immediately by a deep, deliberate intake of breath, and finally her hand patting the bed.

He turns to find that she has seated herself on the bed, the sheets pulled over her crossed legs and her hands resting politely in her lap. She sits straight and looks him in the eye as he glances her over—unflinching as he looks at the neatly-wound bandages covering her neck where the kelp was before.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, softly.

She attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She is looking at his peculiarly—as if she is trying to puzzle something out.

“Has anyone explained where you are?”

She shakes her head, and he almost laughs at how little that surprises him.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.

She nods, and scoots over a bit to make more room for him as he approaches. He sits on the edge of the bed, at a respectful distance, and takes a moment to examine her more thoroughly. There is still sand in her red hair, but someone has washed her skin; a dark, rich copper, marred by a few small scars and the deep blue markings that curl over her high cheekbones.

She is examining him just as closely, and he sees her brilliant green eyes flick up to the scar over his brow, down to the dimple in his chin. He finds himself smiling, realising something.

“You were asking for me?”

Her eyes snap back to his. Then to his hand—he flicks one of his ears with his thumb, then presses his finger into the dimple of his chin. Her eyes widen, and her hands are suddenly active in the space between them—he looks down at them, surprised, as they move in a flurry of patterns he has never seen before, but are entirely deliberate. His breath is stilled by the sheer _activity_ of it, the delight that spreads across her entire body—the precision with which her fingers curl and her arms sway, the turn of her wrists or the shift in her shoulders.

“Ah,” he says, “I’m afraid—”

She stops at his words, her hands hanging in the air mid-gesture. She bites her lip, her fingers curl inward—and _oh_ , the _disappointment_ that darkens her features as her hands fall once more to her lap.

He finds himself wishing he had some comfort to offer. Instead, he says, “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

She looks back up at him, curiously. Almost in spite of herself, a wry smile works its way from her lips to her eyes. She sits up again, straightening her spine—he watches her square her shoulders, put her thumb to her chest and draw a line up the center of it, sitting taller as she does.

 _Pride_ , he thinks, and finds her smile infectious.

“What can I call you?” he asks, not really sure what to expect. Some gesture, perhaps. He doubts she can write, but he will provide her with paper if she needs it.

She does gesture—something vague and half-abandoned. Her lips open and she mouths something.

He narrows his eyes, focusing on her lips. She tries again, exaggerating the motion—

He makes several wrong guesses, and she frowns at all of them. Then, “Aevalle?” he offers.

She grins—nearly jumps from the bed in delight. She reaches forward and grabs his hands, pulling him closer as she leans in. _Lavellan_ , she mouths, _Aevalle Lavellan_.

Her hands are warm, and her eyes are bright like the morning sun reflecting on the water.

“Aevalle Lavellan,” he manages to say. “A pleasure to meet you.”

She squeezes his hands, then releases them. Straightens her back—and she raises a hand to her chin, thumb extended, then presents her palm to him.

She looks a little sheepish as she does it.

 _What does that mean_ , he wonders, as she continues on—watches her hands and her expression in turns as she tells him whatever she feels she has to say.

She bites her lip under his scrutiny, as if chiding herself.

When she is finished, her hands fall to her lap once more, but from the twist of her lips and the dejected slump of her shoulders she is not quite satisfied with the result.

He glances down at her lap, where her fingers twist the blankets.

_They do not understand. They are not trying to._

“Do you have a sign for ‘hello’?” he asks her.

It is— _surprising_ , how such a little thing brings the light to her eyes all over again. How the smile that spreads across her lips is so easily mirrored on his own features.

She shows him—something like a salute with a friendly flick of the wrist—and makes him repeat it until she is satisfied.

He asks a number of phrases and words— _hello, nice to meet you_. _My name is Solas_ —signed as _pride_ , which brings a delightful crinkle to her eyes as he repeats it. _How are you? I am well._

“And for ‘thank you’?” he asks, finally, and it is with a grateful smile that she brings her hand to her chin, thumb extended, then draws her hand down to expose her palm to him.

He repeats it, and she settles her hands in her lap once again. Her shoulders relaxed, smiling warmly at him. The rest can wait, he supposes, but now he understands the core of what she was trying to tell him.

 “You are in a fortress called Seahold,” he tells her.

A flash of recognition crosses her face—and something not unlike alarm—but she schools it quickly.

“You are not, to my knowledge, a prisoner. There is a navy stationed here—”

The door bursts open. Solas turns and finds Cullen standing in the doorway, several soldiers standing jus behind him. His hand is on his sword, but it is not drawn—he has frozen in place, and he stares incredulously at Solas and Aevalle in turns.

Aevalle shifts, and Solas glances back at her. She has moved a little, as if to hide behind Solas from the human in the doorway.

“Commander,” Solas says, and Cullen’s eyes snap to his. “I have succeeded in calming Miss Lavellan, and I have begun explaining the situation as I know it to her.”

Cullen blinks rather owlishly at him. “Miss Lavellan?”

Before Solas can respond, another, familiar voice rings out from the hallway. “Maker’s Breath, Cullen, you’re frightening the poor girl. Excuse me, excuse me, _thank you_.”

Solas watches as the men—trying to peer around Cullen—part, reluctantly, for the elegant woman in gold and blue. There is no reason she should look so utterly comfortable, slipping between soldiers and their commander to enter an infirmary, but her fine dress survives the trip unwrinkled, the gold feather in her delicate hat standing immaculate as she slips past the bewildered Cullen.

“ _Andaran atishan,”_ she says with a stilted accent as she approaches, offering her hand to the young lady on the bed. Aevalle takes it, looking appropriately baffled, and holds it a moment before Josephine gives it a firm shake. “Miss Lavellan, my name is Josephine Montiliyet. I am the Inquisition’s ambassador here in Seahold; I understand our Doctor gave you quite a fright this morning, and I wish to extend a formal apology on behalf of the Inquisition.”

Josephine drops Aevalle’s hand as she waits for a response.

Aevalle, for her part, glances uneasily at Solas. Then she signs, looking quite uncomfortable.

“She says _thank you_ ,” Solas clarifies, when Josephine does not respond immediately.

The ambassador glances at him with a brow raised. “You understand her, Mister Solas?”

“I confess I’ve only just had a very brief lesson. She is an excellent teacher.”

Aevalle gives him a wry look. She signs something quickly that he doesn’t know. Judging from her expression, he suspects it means something like _flatterer_.

Josephine’s assistant follows the path through the soldiers in the doorway—with less grace than the ambassador herself—her arms full of a plain dress.

“I’ve brought something for you to wear—it is not much, but I hope it will do until we can arrange for something more suitable. I was hoping to give you a brief tour of the fortress, if you are well enough for it—Mister Solas, perhaps you might join us?”

There is no refusing Josephine, even if Solas had any wish to. Beside him Aevalle stiffens—perhaps at the thought that he might refuse, that she might be left again without anyone who is interested in learning what she is trying to say.

“I have a few hours to spare,” he says, and Aevalle’s shoulders slump with relief.

 

Varric Tethras usually neglects to eat breakfast when he has an Idea—the kind that sticks with him and refuses to let go. He thinks about it, certainly—knows he _should_. Sometimes it is even provided for him, left by some well-meaning servant outside his door, but he does not discover it until he simply cannot ignore the rumblings of his stomach, long after noon. He usually devours it while he carries the platter back to the kitchens, where he sheepishly asks for leftovers from lunch.

They haven’t gotten this treatment from him for some time— _finally inspired again, Master Tethras_ , they tease him, and the few scullery girls who can read beg to know which story he’s working on next. The mystery series? Perhaps he is delving into gothic horror? Everyone else has been writing them. Perhaps a long-awaited sequel to that romance book he refuses to talk about?

 _None of the above_ , he thinks as he stuffs a soft roll of bread into his mouth specifically to avoid answering the question.

But on his return walk across the battlements—the long way around, thinking about the crash of waves and what it might feel to go tumbling around in its depths—he finds the source of his latest literary obsession, sitting next to each other on the rock wall.

Solas is laughing— _laughing_ , Varric wonders, incredulous—such a soft, low sound that is so full of warmth that _again_ , Varric has to consider he might be hallucinating. But the smile on the illusive artist’s face is still the same after careful scrutiny—his pale gaze focused on the woman sitting beside him.

And she is impeccably dressed, unlike the last time he saw her—the skirts aren’t properly fitted about the waist, he notes, and he suspects they’re too long for her, since even though she’s seated he can barely see her bare toes poking out from under them. But he supposes they suit her better than Solas’ borrowed shirt; there’s even a scarf wound about her neck, though he thinks the sun too bright for it.

“How is that incorrect?” Solas is asking her, and her hands are pressed to her face to—poorly—hide her broad grin. “I fail to see what’s so funny—don’t show me, let me try again.”

Then Solas moves his hands before them in a series of gestures—somewhat clumsily, Varric notes, with some stops and starts. His eyes trained on her face the whole time—and he falters completely when her grin grows impossibly wide, halfway through.

“That is incorrect again,” he guesses.

Reluctantly, she nods.

He sighs—though without any real aggravation, Varric notes. And he’s still smiling—wry, looking at her sideways as she beams up at him, her hands dropping from her mouth to rest in her lap.

“No one told me our little Drifter was awake!” Varric exclaims, and he enjoys how they both jump in place a little bit as he announces his presence. She stares at him wide-eyed, confused, and Solas only straightens, his smile faltering into something more polite, impersonal.

“Ah,” Solas says as he approaches. “Varric Tethras, this is Miss Aevalle Lavellan. You might have heard his name before...?”

She blinks down at him with impossibly wide eyes before shaking her head, _no_.

“Writer, businessman, and no-good liar by the best accounts,” Varric says by way of his own introduction. He offers his hand and she shakes it—firmly, he thinks, noting the calluses on her hands. She is used to carrying weapons, he thinks—and, judging by the way she pulls at her sleeve as she retracts her hands, completely unused to fine clothing.

He suspects that there is a fighter’s physique under all those layers of dress—a hunter, he thinks, looking at the markings that curl over her cheekbones.

She does not respond immediately, and Varric wonders if she’s shy. But she raises her hands and moves them before her in a series of gestures with precise, fluid motions.

“She is pleased to meet you,” Solas says.

 _Oh_ , Varric thinks, and he finds himself paying much closer attention to the movement of her hands this time. And not just her hands—her back straightens, her head tilts. Her eyes are sharp, the curve of her smile deliberate and precise, as she takes in Varric with a glance and seems to decide that she likes him well enough.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Varric answers her smile with his own, genuine and steady. “So, have you been teaching Chuckles all kinds of filthy words we can sign at each other while visitng dignitaries are around?”

He likes the flicker of mischief in her eyes.

“One does not learn an entire language by first _cursing_ in it, Varric,” Solas chides.

“Not with that attitude.”

Aevalle waits until Solas is looking at her again. Then she cups her hand before her chin and, grinning, wiggles it back and forth. She repeats the gesture while Solas frowns, uncomprehending.

It dawns on Varric faster than it does Solas. “I think she wants to know why I call you Chuckles.”

A flicker of recognition crosses Solas’ features. He attempts to keep his expression neutral, but a wan smile works its way onto his face. “I have often wondered that myself,” he says, coolly.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Varric wonders, glancing pointedly at the position of the sun. “Something about painting a lady’s portrait...?”

Solas starts—glances upward, as if the time has all but escaped him. “Of course,” he says—and Varric catches the regret in his tone. “We were waiting for Lady Montiliyet to return, but it seems her errand ran long...”

“I can finish the tour,” Varric offers, noting the sidelong glance that Solas sends Aevalle. “We’ll come join you when we’re done.”

Solas gives him a look.

“What? I promise it’ll be educational.”

“Of _that_ I have no doubt.” He sighs, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I apologise,” he says to Aevalle. “This is not an appointment I may refuse to keep.”

She nods. Varric catches some unease about her at the prospect of being left without him—probably because Solas is the only one who has attempted to learn what her signing means so far. But she smiles warmly at Solas as he bids her farewell—as he half-bows and says, “I hope to see you later this evening, Miss Lavellan.”

She signs something, and if Solas knows what it means he does not clarify for Varric. He nods to the dwarf and then takes his leave, his hands clasped behind his back the whole way.

 “So,” Varric says, once Solas’ retreating back is out of sight. “Got anything really dirty you can teach me?”

Her smirk is answer enough.

 

Varric takes her to where Solas is, after he has given her the tour of the areas of the fortress she is allowed to walk. They spent some time after swapping knowledge—a little of her signing for some gossip about the people who live in Seahold.

Not all of it about Solas. Only... most of it.

The dwarf leaves her in the hall he proclaims leads to Solas’ studio— _not that it really belongs to him or anything, it just has really nice light so that’s usually where he works_.

She is a little shocked to be left alone so quickly—thought for sure they’d be hovering over her forever. Not that Varric is an unpleasant chaperone, or Solas...

Her smile falls. Her hand moves, unbidden, to the place on her back she _knows_ should be covered in gaping wounds, but instead there are only scars.

Solas is something of a mystery.

Yes, he is kind. Certainly he has shown he is clever—and although she suspects the humans here are used to him bowing and stepping aside, the display in the infirmary earlier has shown her his impressive backbone. A snapping tone, eyes set firmly in command.

She is left alone with her thoughts as she approaches the door at the end of the hall—her too-long dress scuffs on the rough stone as she walks, barefoot, and the sound is so loud in the silence it grates at her nerves. The sound of distant waves crashing against stone far below her is a constant pull on the beat of her heart, a dull roar that won’t leave the back of her mind.

As she approaches the closed door, she finds herself hesitating. Her hand is raised to knock, but the fist she makes falters and she presses her palm, silently, to the smooth wood surface.

Her hand falls to her side. Duplicity doesn’t sit well in her stomach, _but_...

 _I suspect you’re like me,_ she signs before the closed door. Absently, the tide of her thoughts pulling her deep into herself. _Am I right?_

She hears a muffled voice beyond the door, and presses in closer to hear better.

“I’ve told you already, there is no need to apologise, Solas.” An unfamiliar woman’s voice, with a faint accent that is in turns both Fereldan and Orlesian.“I was late as well. And besides, I hear you’ve had a busy morning.”

She wonders if there is a beat of silence or if Solas is too far away to hear. “About that,” he says, finally.

“Yes?”

“You may have... suggested before that I take on an assistant.”

“Did I?” The sound of furniture creaking. “Yes, I did. I’d forgotten—I believe there is still money set aside, if you would like me to assign you one.”

A low, embarrassed sigh. “I am afraid my motives for reminding you of this are... less selfish than you might think.”

The stranger laughs. “You are quite taken with her, Mister Solas.”

It’s not a question—but Aevalle finds herself straining to hear the answer.

“I am merely worried—”

“That she has nowhere else to go?” A soft hum, melodic and bittersweet. “It would bring me no joy to leave her on the streets. And she makes Mister Rutherford so _delightfully_ unsettled; I will arrange it.”

“Thank you.”

Silence falls in the room once more, and Aevalle counts her breaths to twenty before she raises her hand to the door and—after a long moment’s hesitation—knocks to announce her presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aevalle's signing is based off of American Sign Language. The signs I have described are based off videos from [here](https://www.signingsavvy.com/). If I'm massively incorrect in anything, please point it out and I'd be happy to modify it.
> 
> I imagine that late Victorian fashion might look a little silly with those elven footwraps we see in game, but I just can't imagine Solas in anything else.


	3. All the Subtlety Of...

The doctor declares Lavellan well two days later, and that is finally when they begin to discuss what to do with her; Cullen hovering by the door while Solas and Varric stand by to cobble together what they have learned separately of her signing and interpret for her.

Well, Cullen seems to have managed to enter the room today, at least. Solas thinks that counts as progress—though the commander still stares at Aevalle with something in between owlish confusion and outright suspicion. For her part, she has stopped trying to hide behind the other people in the room to avoid his gaze—but she deliberately does not look at him, Solas notes.

Josephine is also in the room, flipping through a stack of papers, a slight frown on her features as she paces back and forth.

“I’m afraid I’ve been having trouble locating any references to a Clan Lavellan…” she admits, turning to face Aevalle finally. “Not that the record keeping regarding Dalish clans has been anything resembling _precise_ , as of late. All of my references on the subject are embarrassingly outdated… Perhaps you know of some way I might be able to contact them?”

Aevalle’s hands ball into fists in the fabric of her demure brown dress. She looks down at her lap and shakes her head.

Josephine’s stance softens. A look of understanding crosses her features—one that is echoed throughout the room, Solas thinks—and she continues, softly, “Is there anywhere else you would like to go?”

She doesn’t answer—she doesn’t even look up, her eyes glued to her hands in her lap.

“Seahold is the largest port in Orlais or Ferelden,” Josephine continues, an encouraging tone to her voice, “Not just the most defendable. There are ships leaving here every day that might take you anywhere in Thedas. But,” she adds, when there is still no response, “it is also a good place to start a new life, should you want one. You can be safe, here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Provided you can work,” Cullen interrupts, prompting Josephine to send him a scolding look. “Do you have any skills? Cooking? Cleaning?”

The commander seems to be watching her closely for something, but still she does not acknowledge him. She looks up at Solas, then back down at her lap again.

“Don’t tell me we can’t just keep her around for her good looks, Curly,” Varric teases, only to receive a warning glare from the commander.

“I have already seen to it,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Everyone turns at once—even Aevalle looks up, frowning in curiosity—and Leliana steps past Cullen, still half-blocking the door as if he’ll need to bolt out of it. The redhaired spymaster has a sly smile on her face and a slight spring to her step. If Solas had to guess, he might say it is due to the suspicious look Cullen is suddenly giving her.

She addresses Aevalle instead, wearing a gentler smile than Solas has ever seen on her features. “If it is quite alright with you, I thought you might adjust well to assisting Solas, for the time being. Perhaps when we all know a little better how to understand you, then if you like we might find a better position for you.”

Solas isn’t quite sure what he expects—animosity? She has shown no great dislike for him—quite the opposite, he’s found—but still, she has been given no choice in the matter. He knows they might have simply found work in the kitchens or anywhere else among the staff for her; Seahold is a large fortress, with a sizeable standing army, and there is no shortage of linens to be washed and pressed, or floors to be scrubbed.

Perhaps he should have made the offer himself.

But she only glances up at him—not looking particularly surprised, he finds—and she tilts her head slightly as she signs, _Helping you paint?_

“I’m afraid it’s not very exciting,” he tells her, sharply aware of every gaze in the room on him—Varric with a sly smirk, Cullen looking as if he is trying to appear nonchalant and failing, Josephine with delighted surprise. “You would mostly help me ready my space for sittings, clean when I am finished, and help me carry my supplies when my duties take me from Seahold. Perhaps I might send you for minor errands, once you are comfortable doing so.”

She does not consider it for very long—makes a show of raising a brow, certainly, and _looking_ as if she is giving it serious thought. But her eyes never leave his, and Solas suspects she is thinking more about _him_ and why he is helping her than whether or not she will accept.

And she does—with a nod and a smile directed to Leliana. _Thank you_ , she signs.

Solas allows Varric to interpret—he is busy watching her expression, and trying to puzzle out precisely what she is thinking.

“Curly needs to _relax_ ,” Varric complains later, when the three of them are alone in Solas’ studio. Round walls, the day’s fading light streaming in through the tall windows. They are open to the breeze, to the sound and smell of the waves and the shadows of the gulls that circle the keep.

Aevalle is sitting on the sill as they talk, her bare feet propped on the back of the nearby couch. The wind keeps catching her hair, and the sun turns it to a golden flame with every movement.

Solas is wondering how he might mix that exact shade, and has not been listening to anything Varric has been saying.

“I doubt the commander is merely tongue-tied around Miss Lavellan,” he replies, trying not to let his embarrassment warm his face. He’s not certain he’s succeeded. “Although I am not certain _why_ , his suspicion is obvious. Perhaps keeping you well away from him would be beneficial.”

Varric laughs. “And what, hope he forgets about the woman you dragged into the keep, half-naked? No one saw anything indecent,” he quickly assures Aevalle, who is regarding the dwarf with an amused smile. “I certainly didn’t. No one’s talking about how nice your legs are. Absolutely no one.”

 _Only nice_? she signs back. Her smile is teasing, and as she glances back at Solas she bites her bottom lip.

Solas very quickly turns his gaze back to his brushroll, which he has been organizing for—possibly the entire time she’s been sitting on the windowsill. Perhaps a half hour, now.

Because he is— _puzzled_ by her, certainly. Because she is a mystery he does not yet have all the clues to solve.

Not because her smile is so enchanting, and he wishes he could see the curve of her neck beneath her scarf as she tilts her head.

“I am not falling into that trap,” Varric says, turning her gaze away from Solas once more. “I think if you wanted to keep her under anyone’s special attention, Chuckles, she might have been better off emptying chamber pots.”

Solas huffs a small sigh. “I thought you would have been unhappy with such tasks,” he says, directed at Aevalle. “If I was incorrect or I overstepped, then I apologize.”

She raises a brow.

“Yes, her one true calling was to scrub every floor in this keep until it sparkled, and you ruined it.” Varric retorts, and Aevalle grins in response. “No one’s _happy_ dumping people’s shit out of windows, but nobody’s going to look at them twice while they do it. An artist’s beautiful and mysterious young assistant? Shit, that’ll get heads turning anywhere.”

Aevalle rolls her eyes, then signs a number of things that Solas doesn’t quite understand. But one in particular catches his eye; her hand passing before her face as her fingers spread wide and then curl in on themselves.

“I don’t know what that meant but I’m going to assume you were just sassing me. Yes you’re very pretty.”

She smiles, her eyes bright and clever, and her meaning becomes clear. _So now I’m beautiful?_

“My point is,” Varric says, his fond smile faltering as he turns back to Solas. “You’re the kind of guy who’s perfectly happy to go about his life being overlooked and ignored by absolutely everyone. And don’t give me that look.” He gestures to Solas’ clothing. “I’ve never seen a wardrobe that screams _nothing out of the ordinary here move along_ more than yours, mister _famous artiste_.”

There is a sudden furrow to Aevalle’s brow. Her hands still in her lap as the teasing smile slips from her features.

Varric follows Solas’ gaze to Aevalle. He sighs at her crestfallen expression, and rubs his hand over his face. “Not that I think you’ve done anything but what any decent person would, Chuckles, but this is going to make some big fucking waves. And I hope you’re ready for it.”

The sun slips lower, and catches off something metal outside—it reflects back, glaring and bright, through the window next to the one where Aevalle is perched. Solas pushes himself from the table and goes to it with steady, deliberate steps. He closes the offending shutter—but does not turn back to Varric immediately. He glances sideways, at the Dalish woman sitting on the sill.

She has lifted her gaze to his. Trying to read his expression, he thinks—and he does not know what she sees, but the wariness in her features eases a little when he attempts a smile.

Perhaps it is her influence, but his voice is gentler than he means it to be when he says, “I am aware of the consequences. I will be cautious, Varric.”

When Solas looks over his shoulder, Varric is glancing between them with a significant look.

“Well, if _cautious_ isn’t enough,” Varric says with a significant tilt of his head, “you know where to find me.”

Varric leaves then—Solas doesn’t watch him go. He turns back to the shutter, and busies himself with securing it, so that the wind will not blow it open in the night.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this was a mistake. Objectively— _rationally_ , he knows he cannot harbour this stranger. Not when she has appeared so suddenly after the shipwreck—not with the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces owl eyed and so obviously _suspicious_ of her—

A touch at his shoulder—fleeting, gentle, but he starts at it nonetheless.

Aevalle retracts her hand. There is obvious worry on her face, and he realises he has been refastening the latch multiple times, lost in thought.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, a little too quickly. “I—”

Her expression hardens into something determined, her eyes sharp and the set of her jaw fierce. Her hands move—and Solas has not learned enough of her signing for her to give him complete sentences quite yet, after only a few days, so she gives him single words and his mind fills in the rest.

 _I will protect you_.

He blinks at her. At first he thinks— _no_ , that can’t be right. It must be an expression of her ability to defend herself.

But then she signs it again.

“How would you do that?” he breathes.

The hard lines of her expression crack a little, breaking into a smile. One that implies not just amusement at his reaction—but it’s the smile of a street magician with a card or a scarf tucked into their sleeve.

 _However I had to_ , she replies.

He cannot help but smile—at how brazen she is. At the last light of the sun taking her hair and lighting it aflame—the whole of her wreathed in gold and red. Warrior’s colours, he thinks; and perhaps the lines for the protector that spread across her cheekbones are aptly chosen, no matter that he would prefer her without them. Nearly black themselves in this light, like the deep sea coral they imitate.

And he finds he cannot mock her, or doubt the sincerity of what she offers—the smallest thing she can, he suspects, in return for all he has done.

All he can do is sign, _Thank you,_ and lose himself in the warmth of her smile.

 

Solas had thought that, perhaps, the additional attention direction toward Aevalle and himself would be subtle at first. He thought they might have a week or perhaps longer to adjust.

The first few days are—hectic, at best. Solas spends more time accompanying Aevalle to buy things she needs—suitable clothing, some personal items. Varric insists that she needs to learn to read and write, so he and Solas teach her in turns, and they cramp their fingers imitating the deft movements that are her only means of communication.

It isn’t long before she abandons all pretense of wearing dresses at all—he learns very quickly that she prefers trousers tucked into sturdy footwraps, a loose shirt and suspenders. A woman dressed as such is not an uncommon sight in and around the keep—for the domestic servants less so, but there are only a few raised brows at her choice.

And there are always scarves. Dark scarves wound about her neck.

Josephine has people check on them so frequently that Solas feels he is tripping over half the people in Seahold. Runners who come and check that she’s eaten, who ask if her wages are acceptable. Josephine herself appears as often as she can—each time having learned some new sign that she is eager to demonstrate, in order to see if it needs correcting. _Thank you. I hope you are well. Have a good day._

Leliana’s people are more subtle, but the scouts and spies are among the first to greet Aevalle with signs as well as their voices.

As for Cullen, Solas and Aevalle pass by the stables one evening and overhear some of the soldiers saying—

Well. Nothing worth repeating.

Nevertheless, the only thing that stops Solas from going in there and making an example of them is Aevalle’s hand on his arm and the firm shake of her head. He is forced to wrestle his temper down, along with the shame over his apparently _abominable_ self control.

But inexplicably, improbably, the next morning those same soldiers are on their knees, scrubbing the entire courtyard from gate to the doors of the keep, while Cullen yells his throat raw at them about _propriety_.

He is foolish enough to think that the end of Cullen’s suspicion, this some sign of acceptance. He relaxes a little—speaks more elvhen to Aevalle in private conversation, much to her unending delight. She becomes openly friendly with most people in the keep—her natural state seems to be surrounded by people, he finds, and everywhere they go he sees wary frowns gradually turn into charmed smiles.

Most people proclaim she is an excellent listener. She rolls her eyes privately, where only Solas can see, and he has to hide his smile behind a cough.

She is given the empty quarters next to his—perhaps a little large for her station, he is aware, but the furnishings are sparser than his own, and there’s a draft that no amount of searching can seem to locate.

They spend their evenings relatively secluded—usually in the study. When the sun is setting they might walk the battlements, conversing, run his errands in town or walk along the docks and watch the soldiers and the boats. But it is an unspoken agreement that they keep to themselves when the moon rises. They leave the shutters open—for light, for a breeze. They light a fire in the hearth for warmth, and Solas sketches or reads while she works on her letters.

Solas pretends he is not searching her eyes for a glimmer of what he suspects, with the moonlight reflecting in her eyes, just as she pretends she is not watching him.

 

They are given four days of relative peace, before the reality of their situation comes crashing down on them with all the subtlety of...

Well.

On the fifth morning, Solas is paying too much attention to the wind pulling at her hair to notice the Qunari waiting by the gate. Aevalle, however, does, and stops short with a curious frown.

The explanation, it happens, is rather simple.

“I thought the Commander had perhaps relaxed a little,” Solas says as they walk through the town, Aevalle at his side and at hers...

“Nope,” the Iron Bull confirms. “Still paranoid.”

Aevalle is scowling something fierce, and Solas finds the sight of it puts him in an even more dour mood. She grips the basket she carries tight in both hands, and so she is either unable or unwilling to make her thoughts on the matter more clear. Solas, his hands full of his sketchbook and materials, cannot take it from her to ask what she thinks.

Bull seems to catch where Solas glances at, and he stoops down with a smile. “Let me take that,” he offers, extending a hand, and it’s with a relieved sigh that she passes the large basket over.

She signs something so furiously that it takes Solas longer than usual to parse what she means.

“She says she does not require protection,” he informs Bull. Then, with a secondary glance down at her still rapidly signing hands, adds, “I think.”

“If we’re going to be frank here,” Bull says, hoisting the basket so it sits rather comically on his shoulder, “he really just wants me to keep an eye on you and make sure you’re not... _also_ a spy.”

 _I know!_ She signs, furious. Never mind that Bull can’t understand her. In her rage, she continues on, while Solas glances curiously up at the Qunari.

“ _Also_ a spy?” he repeats, more accusation in his tone than he means to come across, and Aevalle’s hands still.

Bull shrugs. Almost catches the handle of the basket on his horn. “Ben-Hassrath,” he clarifies. Ignores their shellshocked stares. “Not that Cullen knows that, of course. Don’t think he could handle a little friendly espionage without exploding.”

Solas recovers faster. “You mean to say—”

“I mostly send reports,” Bull says with a wave of a hand. “The Qunari back home, they were interested in maybe getting a little peek at what this Inquisition was up to, but no one could agree on the best way to go about it. Then that big warship got wrecked out of the blue, and, _well_...”

It takes Solas a moment to realise that Aevalle has stopped dead in her tracks. He turns to find her standing stock still, gaping openly at Bull as he keeps walking, basket held on his shoulder and a relaxed swagger in his step.

He has not seen such clear terror on her face since the windowsill in the infirmary.

“Hey, Boss.”

They both start. Solas turns back to Bull—who has finally paused, half-turned to look at Aevalle with his good eye. His smile is—surprisingly gentle, Solas finds, for one in his line of work. Mercenary or Qunari spy.

“Seeing as I suddenly got a _very_ nice paying job, how about I buy us all lunch?”

Bull is a constant presence as they run their errands—directing them occasionally towards the baker or the butcher. He chats amiably with the fruit seller while Solas argues, briefly, with the dwarf who supplies most of his canvas.

Aevalle is quiet the whole while—not quite looking at Bull with the same open terror, but she glances at him when his blind side is to them, her expression unreadable.

When the basket is full to brimming, and Solas and his supplier have managed to come to something of an agreement, they follow the long road out of town; the one that leads them away from the sea and towards the farmland resting in the shadow of Seahold. Solas carries his supplies, and Bull all the food, leaving Aevalle with only the bag Solas uses to collect samples for later study, and therefore her hands free for signing.

Bull is surprisingly talkative, for a twice over spy. He asks Aevalle a number of innocuous questions—if she is feeling better, if she’s properly settled in at Seahold. If she’s managed to get one of those blueberry pies before they run out.

At her shaking her head _no_ , he looks at her aghast.

She smiles a little, up at him, and then she signs. Solas opens his mouth to interpret, but Bull makes him stop.

“Wait,” he says, gently, eagerly. “Slow that down for me, both of you?”

She obliges, and Solas interprets sign by sign.

_Varric promised to save me one today._

“This,” Bull mimics, passing his left hand flat before his mouth before curling it into a mimick of writing and turning it into a flair at the end—then drawing both hands affirmatively down, on either side of his body. “That means Varric?”

She nods, and repeats the sign for Bull to see in full again.

“It is a combination of the sign for ‘writer’ and ‘liar,’” Solas clarifies, and Bull lets out such a bellowing laugh that Aevalle actually smiles in response. Her shoulders relax as Bull finishes with a warm, delighted sigh.

“That’s perfect,” Bull says, “You got one for Solas here?”

She signs _Pride_ , which only puzzles the great Qunari.

“My name means pride in Elvhen.”

“Oh,” Bull says with a smirk. “I just thought she was saying something like you had a stick up your—”

“And here we are,” Solas interrupts with a scowl. One that is hard to maintain when he glances at Aevalle from the corner of his eye, and sees her smack Bull’s broad arm in a playful chide.

She seems to remember herself—and the fact that he is being _paid_ to watch her out of suspicion—and freezes in place. Utterly mortified.

Bull only laughs, loud enough to shake her back out of her fear.

The Qunari asks her all sorts of signs as they turn down the even dirt road and into the orchard. They walk through the apple trees, following the low paths used by the groundskeepers. It is too early for the apples to have fallen, just yet, although the trees are loaded with them; branches beginning to bend under the strain of rapidly-growing fruit.

“A flock of rare birds are passing through,” Solas says, hushing them. “My _patron_ has insisted that they be properly documented before they leave.”

 _Passing through_ turns out to be slightly incorrect—the birds have nearly taken over half the orchard. They don’t walk too far into the property before they hear the birdsong—bright and high, sweet and gentle high above their heads.

They settle for their picnic, breaking off chunks of baguette with their hands and cutting the sausage with Solas or Bull’s belt knife while they consider the best plan of attack for the birds. They move too fast to get a good look at—but Solas quickly sketches the silhouette of one mid-flight as he eats.

Aevalle is the one who spreads the crumbs of their bread and the bag of mixed seeds they bought at market before them, and it doesn’t take long for them to be swarmed with the little creatures.

Solas gets a number of detailed sketches—and just enough bird shit on his clothes to make him seriously consider the whole exercise a failure. But when he flips through his sketchbook later, he finds he lingers not on the plumage of the birds, of the difference in size and colouration between the males and females—

In between the rough, scientific drawings, there is a quick scribble of the Iron Bull with a number of birds perched on his horns. Aevalle with a particularly bold female, perched on her wrist and eating from her hand. Even in quick, precise lines, the imitation of her smile, the easy line of her shoulders and the gentle tilt to her head are enough to bring a matching curve to his own lips, a warmth to his chest.

While Aevalle works on her letters by the fire, Solas turns to a fresh page and sketches the scene anew. Bull’s features are a touch vague when he begins to fill them out, the fine details lost to Solas since they parted on their return to the Keep. But he does not have to look at Aevalle to know the curve of her wrist, the scar on her chin or the hook of her nose.

He draws her from memory, as she was in that moment precisely—

Three knocks on the table. Solas looks up from his work to find Aevalle standing from her small desk at the other end of the room.

_Working hard?_

She moves toward him, her gaze dropping down to the sketchbook in his lap.

He closes the book before she can see its contents, resting his hand on the worn leather cover.

“Hardly,” he answers with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh almost forgot, one of Solas' many artistic duties is inspired by VespidaeQueen's [Dalish and Divines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3602943/chapters/7949049). Which is fabulous and you should all read it.


	4. One Foot in the Sea

Aevalle Lavellan’s new life at Seahold quickly falls into routine—each morning she wakes with the sliver of the sun on the horizon, blinking awake from dreams of waves, singing, laughter, and blood. Her hand goes first to her neck, to assure herself that it is still completely covered, that her tossing and turning has not made the long scrap of soft fabric slip in the night. Hardly as elegant as the scarf she tends to wear about, but at least no nighttime intruder, well-meaning or otherwise, might happen upon her and discover her secret.

Her room is sparse, with only the bare minimum of furniture provided for her. There is a tiny vanity, with a very small mirror sitting upon it. She turns in it, cranes her neck so she can see her back, every morning, to assure herself that this is real—not some dream she will wake from, to discover it has all been a lie.

Every morning, the scars remain—pale against her skin, their lines indistinct and shadowed with what little light is provided by her window.

So  this morning, like every morning, next she settles her shift back down around her hips, sits on the small stool provided for her, rests her elbows on the vanity and stares at her own reflection.

Her cheeks are no longer gaunt, she thinks, poking at them uncertainly. She’d looked a ghost the first time she saw her own reflection since coming here. She runs her hands through her hair and determines it healthy, decides she does not need to touch up the shave on the right side of her scalp. A peculiar haircut, she knows, especially now that she lives among the humans—but she can’t bring herself to grow it out again, now that she is free to wear it as she likes once more.

This morning she finds that her roots are growing in dark, dark brown—visible now to her gleaming elven eyes in the poor light. She bites her lip and wonders— _thinks_ she saw a few of the herbs she needs in the market, on their many trips into town. Maybe Solas would know where to procure them, should she ask.

The thought makes her frown a little—and she almost laughs, at how girlish she looks in the mirror.

It’s only been three weeks since he found her, half-dead on the beach. It seems a little vain to be worrying about her hair growing out, instead of anything else, but…

But she’s caught him looking at her hair, and she’s seen attempts to imitate its shade, sitting on a palette. She wonders if he would disapprove, if she told him it wasn’t real.

She exhales, slowly. Her stomach feels like a net full of wriggling fish— _how vain indeed_.

Once she finds herself suitable—and after triple-checking the lock on the door—she quickly unwinds the cloth from her neck, soaked through with sweat as it is, and cleans herself quickly and efficiently with a bowl of water and a wet cloth. She winds clean material about her neck, then dresses herself and brushes her hair.

After winding her footwraps around her legs—and wishing for the hundredth time for a decent source of sealskin—she sets about tidying her quarters. She makes the bed and arranges what few possessions she has—the writing materials Varric gave her, a flower she found in the courtyard and pressed between the pages of the journal. A small, easily concealed blade that Bull gave her a few days ago with a reassuring smile. She sleeps with it under her pillow, and it helps.

From Solas; a woven bracelet, made by one of the women in town. Made from the kind of rope used by sailors, bleached white, heavy and strong—adorned with a number of beads of varying shades of blue, each deeper than the last.

He bought it for her only yesterday. _I saw you admiring it. I... thought it suited you._

The tips of his ears were just flushed when he gave it to her, his expression bashful. And something else that she still can’t quite figure out—something wistful, longing.

It had probably cost him a few coppers, at most. She holds it as if it is made of gold.

 _Oh, Aevalle,_ she thinks, staring down at the gift in her hands. _You should not have encouraged this._

But her heart still gives a little flutter at the sight of it—and though it’s _painful_ , though there are a million reasons why she should tuck it out of sight and forget about it, she finds they don’t hold any weight compared to the memory of his gentle smile.

 _I’ll protect you_ , she promised, and—and she finds that perhaps the simplest means to that end are too difficult for her to bear.

 _Waves lapping at the shore, the songs your father sang in the night_ , the thought occurs to her, as if in someone else’s voice. Loud enough she could swear that there is another person in the room, speaking to her. _Pride speaks of sorrow, and it all comes rushing back._

When she turns, she is still alone.

_Halla never swim alone—you weren’t meant to, either._

The room seems utterly silent then, as if there is suddenly an absence of some other being. She finds herself remembering Deshanna’s old stories about spirits, about things brought up from the depths of the soul by the swell of the tide.

She brings her hand to her face, and finds her cheeks wet with tears.

 

She is wearing the bracelet.

Solas should not feel such elation at the sight—this should not be the first thing he notices about her when he finds her in the morning. His gaze should not have _immediately_ gone to her wrist, his eagerness to see her pleased by such a small thing rather embarrassing, in truth.

He should not see it, in its simplicity, and wish he could give her a little piece of the treasures that only exist now in his dreams.

But she is smiling, and that is enough to chase his darker thoughts away.

 _Good morning_ , she signs.

“Good morning,” he returns, signing as he speaks. “Leliana and Josephine have both informed me that they will be unable to keep their appointments today—would you like to go into town?”

She considers his signing and makes a few corrections for him, and bids him repeat them before she responds.

_Looks like rain, but I don’t mind. You think Varric will join us?_

“He is furiously writing, I imagine. I doubt he would notice if we slipped away without him.”

 _Shame_ , she signs with a smirk. _I will miss all his complaining._

It is far too difficult to _not_ return her mischievous grin—and Solas only struggles with it a moment, in truth, before giving in himself. _Perhaps we might evade our usual escort,_ he signs.

She gives the matter some thought, tilting her head. She falls into step beside him, and the wind tosses her hair over her shoulders. The roots are growing in darker than the rest, and he briefly considers asking her about it. He has guessed at some of the herbs she uses for her dye, but not all of them just yet. He is tempted to wait until he has puzzled them all out before bringing it up.

 _If we are quick_ , she replies at length, _but what did you have in mind that you don’t want Bull around for?_

“Other than the pleasure of your company, uninterrupted?”

Her answering smile is bashful, uncomplicated in its sincerity. _Sweet talker_ , she teases him.

When they turn the corner to the battlements above the courtyard, however, their conversation is interrupted by Cullen’s shouting and the movement of soldiers.

For a brief—extremely brief—moment, Solas thinks the fortress under attack. But the soliders are lining up for inspection, not for battle, and in the direction of the gates that bar the road leading down to the harbour.

The doors are opening as the soldiers are arranged, standing at attention, and Cassandra Pentaghast strides in, Josesphine and Leliana on either side and a small contingent of soldiers following close behind.

“Cullen,” she says, even as a herald attempts to announce her presence. “Tell me everything.”

“Lady Pentaghast,” Josephine is saying, _exasperated_ , “I have been _trying_ to do just that.”

For his part, the commander looks as if he has expected nothing less. “I have a full report waiting for you in my office,” he replies. “Although some of my suspicions have changed in the weeks since I wrote you. My last missive wouldn’t have reached you before your departure.”

Solas has not seen the Lady Pentaghast in months, and from this distance he cannot make out her expression, but he remembers the harsh lines of it well. “Do not stand there and attempt to pacify me, Cullen. Explain how the Inquisition’s newest and fastest ship was lost on a clear night on a diplomatic mission, and why those responsible have not been immediately lined up for me to interrogate on my return.”

“It is not a simple matter, Cassandra,” Leliana interrupts—and Solas is not imagining the glance she sends up at the battlements, where he stands with Aevalle. He cannot help but bristle in turn, straighten his shoulders and put his hands behind his back.

“Where is she?” Cassandra demands, and Solas’ blood runs cold.

Cullen opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Josphine. “Oh, no. Cassandra, I am not having you _interrogate_ a traumatized girl who clearly has had nothing to do with this, in spite of Cullen’s outrageous and completely unexplained _hunch_ that she is involved.”

A cool, collected voice cuts through the soldiers at Cassandra’s back. “They are quite right, my dear.”

The soldiers part, like a wave, and a woman walks through the center of the space they have made as if she owns every fleck of dust within it. Her petticoats are opulent and swirl about her as she moves, catching every bit of light the cloudy sky has to offer and glittering like a precious gemstone.

“The Commander has said himself that his suspicions have changed from his last communication. And we’ve had a terribly long journey—perhaps it might be best to rest before we make any truly drastic decisions?”

The woman certainly presents herself as the sort of person formidable enough to give Cassandra pause—and the lady Pentaghast _does_ , certainly, although she looks none too happy about it.

“Of course,” she says, stiffly. “I would hear you out before I question anyone else, Cullen. And there is the matter of the Grey Wardens vanishing…”

Everyone in the courtyard relaxes. Solas does not, and neither does Aevalle, standing stock still at his side.

“She’s intense, isn’t she?” comes a voice from behind them.

Aevalle jumps in place and nearly bolts, and Solas jerks before he recognises the voice and turns, scowling.

The Iron Bull is standing behind them, his arms crossed. Trying his best not to look too amused at having snuck up on them.

“Don’t worry, Boss,” he says, smiling, when Aevalle still looks unsettled. “Nobody really thinks you single-handedly sunk a warship. Besides,” he adds, inclining his head to the side, “the one thing everyone can agree on about that night is the _weird and mysterious singing_. And I’m pretty sure it’ll take her two minutes to figure out why it can’t be you.”

She attempts a smile and signs, _Thank you, Bull_. Uneasily, though—her hands still shake, Solas notes.

Bull notes it as well—but he smiles still, and gestures to the stairs nearby. “So, what’s the plan? We heading into town today?”

Down below, Josephine says, “Ah, Mister Solas? I believe he usually walks the battlements with his assistant this time of morning—there they are. Mister Solas! Miss Lavellan! And the Iron Bull!”

He gives himself a moment to compose himself—to relax his shoulders and to hunch slightly, to appear smaller than he truly is. Then he leans far enough over the stones to be properly seen.

The Lady Montiliyet gestures for him to join them, and he inclines his head politely.

He takes Aevalle’s arm as he begins to walk down, and leans in close enough to whisper, “It will be fine. Just stay close.”

A stiff nod is her only reply.

As they approach, Josephine continues speaking to the woman in the fine dress—Cassandra is still beside her, talking with Cullen and Leliana.

“You asked me to look into it, and I did all I could,” Cassandra says, her arms crossed and her expression sour. “The Grey Wardens have all but vanished in Orlais and Fereldan.”

“That cannot be right,” Cullen says. “Where might they have gone? And what does this have to do with the sinking of the Justinia?”

Leliana, however, only nods. “I do not wish to believe it either, and yet all my sources agree with you. However, recently I have word of one Warden in this area, but he moves frequently and is hard to track down…”

“Mister Solas,” Josephine says, and he tears his attention from that conversation to hers. “And Miss Lavellan, and the Iron Bull—may I introduce Lady Vivienne, First Enchanter to the Orlesian court.”

Vivienne inclines her head in greeting—and Solas knows there are steps to this dance, although it riles at him to perform them for someone who is paying him very little attention. He follows suit—not a full bow, as he probably should, but he is already unsettled by being singled out so quickly, and the way Vivienne is looking at Aevalle. In truth he mirrors her greeting more than how he should properly act—a gracious nod, as if he is the one who has the higher station.

At his side, Aevalle hesitates a moment—and then she bows, sweeping and formal.

The sight of it startles him—he has never taught her to curtsy, even, has never thought once to tell her how to greet those who see themselves as her betters.

Vivienne’s eyebrows shoot right up at the sight of it—and a heartbeat later she has schooled her expression again

“A pleasure to meet you, Mister Solas,” she says. “I must admit, I was expecting something else. Or perhaps the seaside life has driven you to a more humble style of dress than your fame would permit?”

 _You were expecting a human_ , Solas knows, and does not reply to the sentiment. He has done nothing to cultivate any sort of reputation; wagging tongues have done that job for him. “I take it you are familiar with my work?”

“Not myself, personally—the Empress herself heard of your staying here and insisted I come steal you immediately. She said, ‘the halls of the Winter Palace are empty without his skill among the artists displayed here.’”

“I would hardly be the first stolen thing to be dressed up and displayed at Halamshiral,” Solas answers back, smoothly. “If you will excuse me, Madame, we have appointments to keep in town.”

If Vivienne is at all shocked or offended by his words, she does not show it. She nods, curtly, a gesture he returns, and Aevalle and Bull turn with him as he leaves.

He catches sight of Cassandra, sending Aevalle a long, piercing glance.

It is not until they are well into the town before Bull exhales, slowly, and says, “Shit, Solas, if there was ever a time to clam up and say _yes ma’am,_ that would have been it.”

“And she would have seen through it immediately. With people like Vivienne, it is best to let them know exactly what I think and feel now, so there is no confusion in the future.”

“Right. And if it happens to take attention away from Aevalle and direct it towards you?”

“I would not complain.”

Bull barks out a half-laugh. “You hear that, Boss?” And then he pauses, long enough that Solas’ own steps falter in the busy street. “Boss?” Bull says, again.

Solas turns, and she is gone.

 

It is pissing rain, and there is a young elven woman lost in town.

She _looks_ lost anyway, he thinks, and he’s not certain he knows where he’s going around here, but this is not precisely a savoury part of town. She’s not dressed in anything special—men’s shirt and trousers with that old fashioned elven footwear he’s never understood, her toes buried in the mud as she stands and looks about herself, a slight frown on her face.

There are old stories—the kind a grandmother tells, the kind that has changed so much that with each telling it must grow farther and farther from the truth. It _must_. Stories about elves and where they came from, about an empire long lost under the sea. And he’s never given it much thought, because there are old ruins enough on dry land and he’s never given _those_ much thought either—he has more immediate worries.

But she stands in the rain, unperturbed by the bulking, heavy drops that fall on her shoulders, and he thinks of those stories. She has no coat, no collar to flip up against the heavy rain, and her hair is so flat against her skull he thinks she’s been out in it quite a while.

 _Some of them never really left,_ the old stories say. _Some of them still have one foot in the sea, after all this time._

He considers leaving her be; this is not a town in which to attract attention, not with the keep so imposing on the horizon. But these coastal storms can sneak up on anyone, most days—and he knows to be caught out in them unprepared is dangerous to one’s health. In more ways than the obvious.

“Excuse me miss,” he calls, and she jumps at the sound of his voice. Skittish, then—and as he approaches he can see why, those Dalish markings curling up her cheekbones and disappearing into her hairline.

She does not relax at seeing the Warden insignia on his jacket, like most do—and she’s subtle about it, but she slips into a stance that will make it easy for her to land a quick blow to a vital area, if she has to.

“Warden Blackwall,” he says, and the lie has settled some in the repeated telling; it has become easier, which makes it harder to bear. Still, he is taking off his coat even as he approaches, no matter the strange looks she is giving him. “Are you lost?”

She glances once more at the empty street around them. Moves her hands before her—then seems to remember herself, and nods.

He offers the jacket, but she stares at it like some strange, foreign thing, and does not reach for it.

“You’ll catch your death out here,” he tells her.

Her only response is to smile, as if at some private joke. And he’s seen that look often enough—although it’s usually in response to an inappropriate question, and _not_ when offered protection from the rain.

 _Silly human_ , she is probably thinking. But she does look like she’s about to cry.

Lost in more ways than one, he thinks, and he does not draw back his offer of the jacket. “These coastal storms never last long,” he tells her, gently as he can. “How about a drink? I’ll buy.”

She studies his face long and hard—and he cannot read her expression or figure out what she decides about him, but in the end she takes his jacket and throws it over her shoulders.

She follows him into the pub—and it’s not precisely the place he would take a lady most days, but it’s close and dry and he’s already paid for the room for the night. He leaves her at the bar long enough to deposit the supplies he’d bought in his room, and when he returns she’s precisely where he left her—sitting on a stool, dripping onto the rough wooden floor, her jacket still slung over her shoulders.

“You look like you could use something strong,” he says as he takes the stool next to hers, and her shoulders slump with such visible relief he almost laughs.

“Apple brandy for the lady,” he says to the barkeep. And, after a moment’s thought, he adds, “And one for me as well.”

“So,” Blackwall says, when they have sipped their drinks in silence to chase the cold from their toes, “where you running off to?”

She shrugs. Stares absently at the liquid in her tankard.

“From something? Someone?”

Still, she doesn’t respond. But she does reach up and touch the Warden insignia on his jacket, which makes him wonder.

“Your parents will be worried about you, you know,” he offers.

She turns and looks at him—and he regrets having said it at all. There’s a hardness to her eyes that belies such heartbreak, it’s all he can do to meet her gaze.

There are more recent stories about her people, and they have less to do with the ocean and more with human greed; factories, and the land needed to build them.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gently.

She drinks again—a long, hard swallow—and goes back to ignoring him.

“Are you in trouble, then?” he asks at length.

She gives him a look that says, _you have no idea_.

“Not very talkative, are you?”

She touches her throat—and he feels infinitely silly.

“Sorry,” he offers again.

She shrugs. Goes back to her drink.

“So,” he says, when they have both finished their drinks and the wind has begun to rattle the tavern windows, “your trouble. Something you did?”

She nods, and does not look up from her drink.

Something she’s not proud of, then, he thinks, recognising the distant look in her eyes. He takes another look at her—the clothing seems to be from here, he thinks, recognising the style as favoured in coastal towns and the colour of the stitching as one he’s seen frequently in the area. And he doesn’t know much about the Dalish, but he knows that those footwraps are made of druffalo leather, from the look of them, instead of anything wild.

Her nails are clean, evenly trimmed, and although she is perhaps a little skinny she is not gaunt. And there is a bracelet, sticking out from the sleeve of the jacket—nothing expensive, but very pretty nonetheless. She keeps touching it, then moving her hand back to her drink.

“You’re well looked after, though,” he observes, and she looks at him then, her brow furrowing in open suspicion. “Unless I’m wrong, someone here would miss you if you took off, so you’ve been hesitating.”

She frowns at him a moment longer—and then exhales, as if a rush of breath can convey all her worries. She nods again, leaning back on her stool to run a hand through her hair, curls springing up as they dry.

“They don’t know, then.” That, confirmed. “And you can’t tell them.”

 _For reasons aside from the obvious,_ he mentally adds.

Her face twists, but she gives no indication of her answer.

 _Or won’t_ , he supposes, but doesn’t voice.

“So don’t leave,” he says.

She looks at him again—green eyes narrowed, staring intensely into his.

He shrugs. “You’ve got someone looking after you, here—and I’m guessing if you’re running away from a warm bed and a roof over your head on a day like this, your trouble’s going to find you whether you’re curled up by a fire with your friend or shivering alone in a ditch by the road. Or,” he adds, at the curious raise of her brow, “sharing a drink with an old man who’s just guessing at your problems. For all I know maybe you just broke a plate.”

She actually smiles a little, at that. Wistful and sweet—and she looks younger, he thinks, with the ache of the past chased away from her features.

Blackwall pays the barkeep and she stands, slipping his sopping jacket off her shoulders.

“Know where you’re going yet?” he asks, and she only shrugs in response. He gestures for her to keep the jacket on as he gets to his feet. “Then I’ll walk with you awhile, if you don’t mind?”

She raises her brow at him, but slides his jacket higher onto her shoulders.

It doesn’t take long for him to lead her to the main road—and he finds the silence between them surprisingly comfortable. She walks content at his side, and once she begins to recognise the shops around her she points them out to him, miming her meaning as best as she can—she indicates which food stalls are her favourite, and with her fingers poking through a hole in his sleeve which tailor has the fairest prices.

“Miss Lavellan!” someone calls, and her attention is torn away from soundlessly teasing Blackwall about the state of his clothes.

There is a bald elf just down the street, running towards them. He is poorly dressed for the weather as well, his faded vest and plain shirt soaked through with rain. An utterly massive Qunari follows behind, and Blackwall finds himself standing taller under the man’s narrow-eyed gaze.

The elf glares at him with surprising hostility as he arrives before the girl—Lavellan, it seems. Then his attention is completely on her, his hands coming up to touch her shoulders, as if to assure himself she is still solid under the jacket.

Lavellan’s eyes light up at the sight of him—as he scowls and blusters and tries to catch his breath, as if he has been running and worrying a great deal for a long time.

He moves a hand as if to touch her face, then drops them at his side completely—as if he has suddenly remembered himself.

“Where have you been?” he chides, in between breaths. “We were looking everywhere for you.”

She raises her hands and moves them before her in a series of gestures. The man watches her hands and her face alternatively, his eyes narrowing in exasperation as she goes on.

“I am aware you were _lost_ ,” he says—although the severity of his tone is utterly ruined by the relieved smile that keeps threatening to break over his whole face. “I told you to stay close, did I not?”

She gestures again, looking embarrassed.

The man can no longer keep the smile from spreading. “No harm done,” he tells her, gently.

“Who’s your new friend, Boss?” the Qunari asks, just as Blackwall thinks to abandon his jacket completely and take his leave.

He opens his mouth to introduce himself— _hesitantly_ , because that Qunari is looking at him pretty intensely, but Lavellan moves her hands again, and everyone’s attention seems to be on her.

“Ah, slowly, please,” the elf says, frowning. “I’m afraid I do not…”

She huffs and repeats herself—and Blackwall stares rather openly, watching as if he too will suddenly understand her just by watching.

“Blackwall?” the elf says, blinking curiously. He looks up at the man in question, then, with a strangely inscrutable expression. “She says you are a Grey Warden.”

“Ah,” Blackwall says, still trying to figure out exactly how any of that was understood from a series of hand movements he couldn’t tell apart from one another. “Yes. Warden Blackwall, Mister…?”

“Solas.”

“The Iron Bull,” the Qunari says. “I thought you all vanished into thin air?”

And _that_ , he thinks, explains a few things—particularly why there were no missives waiting for a Warden Blackwall in the usual places, although prolonged silence from Weisshaupt is nothing new. Still, he straightens under the Qunari’s scrutiny, under renewed suspicion from Solas, and says, “I haven’t seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting.”

The Iron Bull nods, seeming to accept that answer. Solas’ attention is diverted by Miss Lavellan clearing her throat, then her continued signing.

“You are right,” he says, with a slight nod. Then, to Blackwall, “The hour is growing late, and Miss Lavellan tells me that your lodgings are… inadequate. She insists you join us for dinner, and asks that you stay the night, as thanks for helping her find her way. Perhaps you might answer some of Lady Pentaghast’s questions about the Wardens, then.”

The name _Pentaghast_ is familiar enough, although Blackwall can’t quite place where he’s heard it before. He has nothing to offer about the Wardens or where they might have gone, but he does not think it too strange, personally—there’s no Blight, after all. And Miss Lavellan’s expression when she looks at him is so eager, he thinks, that it would be cruel to refuse her. _One night_ , he thinks as he accepts graciously. _One night with company and a decent bed, for a change_.

But they do not veer off the main road, do not slip into some house or inn or even a blessed sidestreet. No, they walk right up to the Keep, oblivious to Blackwall’s growing unease. And the soldiers let them pass without looking at them twice, the emblem of the Inquisition blazing on their jackets.

 _Shit_ , Blackwall finds himself thinking as they pass under the arch and into the famed Seahold, the fortress of the newly minted Inquisition.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas: Act natural  
> Solas: *offends everyone in three words or less*
> 
> I still think one of the funniest things about Inquisition is that you can go through Blackwall's recruitment quest without telling him you're the Herald of Andraste; he's the only companion who has no fucking clue who you are when you meet him. I like to imagine his face when he waltzes up to an Inquisition camp and goes, "Hey some elf told me to join" and they're like "yes the Herald of Andraste told us to expect you please come sit in the center of attention right here"


	5. To Feel it Echoed There

One evening, only a few days after Aevalle became lost in town, they have an argument.

Perhaps he is already on edge, worrying about his sitting with Cassandra the next morning. Perhaps Blackwall’s continued presence irks him, as it means Aevalle spends more time teaching yet another person the basics of her language, leaving Solas unable to further his own understanding of it. Perhaps the topic—

Well. Certainly the topic is poorly chosen.

When they are alone, they switch to the method of learning they have found works best between them. One of them will pick a subject, and Solas will speak on it while Aevalle repeats his words in sign. He has found this an excellent way to uncover more vocabulary than she might have given him normally, although he quickly forgets much of it.

 _Tell me about our people_ , she suggests, the fire low in the hearth. _I’m interested in your opinion on elven culture._

Poorly chosen or no, he starts it—he’s not too proud to admit that, after the fact. At the time, the argument escalates and will not stop until her hands are shaking far too much for him to understand, and he—

“Did the Dalish not send you away, when you became unable to speak?”

_Is that what you think happened?_

“You do not deny it.”

_I don’t have to._

“You have made it clear you are unable to return. What other reason could there be?”

_You’re—you—_

“Slow down. I cannot understand you when you get like this.”

And her only response, shaped by hands thrown through the air as she leaves the room in a flurry of movement: _I don’t care_.

He leaves her to her own devices for the night, and she does not meet with him for their morning walk on the battlements. Leaving him alone in his studio to face the one person in the keep who wants to be there less than he does.

“Must we really go on with this?”

“I understand your reservations, but I would appreciate it if you would not postpone this sitting any longer. It would certainly make my life a good deal simpler.”

Cassandra scoffs, and Solas glances up from the blank canvas. She is standing by the window, her nose wrinkling in distaste as she looks out to the harbour and the ocean. Her arms are crossed and her gaze strangely focused, the lines of her face sharp in the morning light.

“I am not one for sitting when there is work to be done,” she says, and Solas knows her gaze has dropped to the empty dock where the _Justinia_ once rested.

He hears the sound of the door opening, then closing softly—he turns, Aevalle is standing with her back to the door. She does not quite meet his gaze, but she raises her hands and signs, _Sorry I’m late_.

Not, as he had hoped, an apology for their earlier argument.

“We have only just begun. Your tardiness is forgiven.”

She stiffens. She glances up at him, her eyes narrowed—and then she rolls her shoulders and strides into the room, holding her head high, and deliberately avoiding his gaze.

“Does she always join you for your sittings?” Cassandra wonders, open suspicion colouring her words. At least it is never a mystery what she thinks of someone, Solas thinks.

“For the last three weeks, yes,” he says. “She is my assistant after all, Lady Pentaghast.”

“If I hear one more _Lady Pentaghast_ I will probably throw something or someone out this window. Cassandra will do.”

Aevalle has approached him from behind, and now her breath rushes against the tip of his ear. She likes to watch him work, he’s noticed, that has not ceased in spite of their spat—and she has never seen him start from an empty canvas before. She keeps glancing at it, then up at Cassandra.

 _You should paint her like that_ , she signs, when she notices Solas looking.

He raises his brow, following the line of her sight. “That’s not very traditional,” he says, already considering it.

Cassandra exhales. “I am not one for tradition when it serves no purpose.”

She is not wearing the petticoats, fine jewellery or elegant hats that he normally paints—her clothes are all leather and hard lines, colours muted by salt and sun.

His thoughts are interrupted by a gentle tapping at the door. “Surprising words from the right hand of the Divine. Miss Lavellan, that would be the tailor—if you would inform her she is not needed.”

He glances over just long enough to see Aevalle’s satisfied smirk as she turns. His gaze wanders, a little, as she walks away—and when he faces forward again, Cassandra is giving him a strange look.

“Give up so soon?”

“Hardly. The Divine has commissioned a series of portraits—she did not specify how the subject matter might be portrayed. Leliana, for example, asked to be painted with her nugs.”

Cassandra raises a single brow, a wry smile working onto her face. “I would appreciate sitting for these paintings more if you would not dress me in stuffy ceremonial armour, Solas.”

“I can imagine.” He moves the easel out of the way so he can see her better, then pulls his sketchbook out from under a stack of papers on the table beside him. “Miss Lavellan thinks I should paint you as you are. I am inclined to agree with her.”

Cassandra’s sharp gaze snapping to over his shoulder tells him that Aevalle has returned. He glances over at her to see her pull up a stool and perch on it, looking curiously at his sketchbook.

 _Is that unusual?_ she signs, looking between Solas and Cassandra.

“What is she saying?”

Solas grabs a piece of charcoal and begins to block out some rough shapes on the page. “She is asking if the way she has suggested this portrait be painted is unusual. And the answer is yes—normally the subject would be wearing finery, surrounded by objects that represented their status and whatever else that might be used to portray significant information about them.”

_Like where they came from?_

“Yes, like where they came from. For example, Cassandra might be painted with a Nevarran flag somewhere in the background, or perhaps—”

“Tools used by Mortalitasi, mummified corpses...” Cassandra’s lip curls in distaste. “I preferred the ones swimming with dragons. At least they were less... morbid.”

Aevalle taps Solas’ shoulder until he looks at her so she can sign. “She wants to know how many times your portrait has been painted.”

Cassandra sighs. “Too many. When I was a child, my uncle commissioned one of my brother and I almost every year. And then I became the right Hand of the Divine, and—well. Suffice to say there are enough portraits of me to fill the Grand Necropolis.”

Again, Aevalle steals his attention away from his sketch. But her eyes are wide and curious, and he finds he cannot hush her for the life of him. Perhaps he will have to invite Varric along for the next session, if only to interpret so he can work. “The Grand Necropolis is where the Nevarran people preserve the bodies of those of great import who have died,” he tells her.

She must make a disbelieving face, because Cassandra laughs a little at her expression. “I never saw the point either,” she agrees, softly. “But I suppose we are all a bit strange where death is concerned. How do you bury your dead?”

It is a simple question, easy for most children to answer—but the following silence _hangs_ in the room, an utter stillness broken only by the sound of Solas sketching on the page. He pauses, frowning, and turns to Aevalle, to see her looking just past Cassandra, out the window.

He thinks she is refusing to answer, at first—or that she is so lost in thought that she has forgotten she must. A glance back at Cassandra, and he sees her features sharpen, her brows furrow and her expression intense.

But then Aevalle begins to sign—her movements slow, as if she is moving through water and not air. And he does not know all the signs she uses, but his own knowledge of her people fills in what blanks context does not.

_We would prepare a raft made of driftwood, place them on it with a bed of sealskin to keep them warm and a token made of black coral to guide their way. Then we would take it out to sea in the night, where the water is dark and deep, and we would light it aflame while we sang the old songs, until the wind and the waves carried them away._

When Solas interprets, he finds his throat dry, his voice thick and low.

After he finishes, it is Cassandra who breaks another extended silence—hesitantly. Softly. “Solas is not misspeaking—you mean in the past.”

Aevalle nods, very slowly. Still looking out to sea.

Something softens in Cassandra’s expression, then. “I am sorry.”

Aevalle closes her eyes. Then, without opening them, she signs, _What was so special about that ship?_

Solas frowns at her, not understanding the abrupt change in topic. He does not voice the question until she opens her eyes, looks directly at him, and signs it again—her motions quick and jerking, an anger in her expression he doesn’t quite understand.

_The one that sank. Why was it so special?_

The question startles Cassandra as much as it does him, but she does a better job of hiding it. “The _Justinia_ was meant to be the Inquisition’s flagship—commissioned by the Divine herself. It was meant to be a symbol of her arm reaching across Thedas, delivering justice and order wherever the Inqusition sailed.”

Aevalle’s lip curls at the word _justice_. Her eyes are bright, despite the cold rage distorting her features.

_And who deserves justice, according to your Chantry? Who is worth defending with fleets and soldiers this Divine might send?_

Solas asks her questions, dutifully—and the part of him that wants to protect her feels he should object, should misconstrue or lie, and change her meaning to something less... _raw_.

But he cannot bring himself to silence her against her will, so he speaks for her, as she signs, no gentleness in his words to soften the harsh lines her hands carve into the air.

“That I cannot answer,” Cassandra replies at length, her shoulders and back straight and stiff. “But tell me—does its sinking make up for its failings? Does the loss of nearly all its crew right some wrong the Inquisition has made in your eyes?”

Aevalle opens her mouth, then closes it so fast her teeth clack together. Solas coughs, to drag her attention away from Cassandra—to break the fierce stares with which they are fixing one another.

 _Please,_ he signs. _This will not end well._

She exhales—an angry, short breath—and signs back, _I don’t care_ , before he has even finished.

And, either because she is heeding his advice or because she has become, once again, too angry to sign, she whirls and leaves the room.

Solas sighs, and puts his charcoal on the table next to him to disguise the shaking of his hand.

“What was that about?” Cassandra asks—the question as pointed as her gaze, still focused on the door.

“I... do not know,” he answers, helplessly. Thinking of lashes on her back; of careless words before the fire.

 

The sun is setting over the ocean, and he has spent hours searching from the top of the fortress to the bottom—even in places he is certain no other living being remembers. He has looked in the ancient library to find only ancient tomes, in the undercroft with the high tide lapping about his knees, in the tavern just outside the gates among Bull and his Chargers, at the stables where Blackwall carves small toys for the children in town.

So of course he finds her at the end of it all on the battlements, sitting with her legs hanging out over empty air, with an elf he does not recognise beside her and a number of dark bottles rolling around on the stones behind them.

“Piss on ‘em, though,” the strange elf is saying. “Seriously. What, they think you took down that big boat all by yourself?”

She laughs, long and hard. Aevalle’s shoulders shake and she sways a little. She tries to sign, then remembers she is holding a bottle in her hand. She puts it down on the stones beside her, then proceeds—from this angle, Solas cannot tell what she is signing, but he can see the mirth on her face.

“Yeah,” the blonde elf says, “right, all I got is,” and she signs _Hello,_ with an exaggerated gesture. “And that’s just ‘cause I bothered to ask around. We gone over this, and you keep doing the—okay I know what that one means you little prick.”

Aevalle clasps her hands over her mouth in an _extremely_ poor attempt to mask her laughter.

“Anyway—fuck you— _anyway_ , my point is.” And she leans toward Aevalle, squinting slightly, then leans back again, resting her shoulder on the stone at her side. “My _point_ is. Did anyone fucking ask you? Like Everyone says that stuck up painter guy does the hand thing really well by now. They sent a whole fucking ship back here with like, the grumpiest ladies on it. And I should fucking know, because—and okay.” She leans closer and tries to whisper, but there is still a slab of stone separating her and Aevalle so it comes out almost as loud as her speaking voice. “ _This is a secret,_ you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not a fucking word.”

Aevalle nods, as solemnly as she can in spite of the smile breaking out on her face.

“I came on the same ship!” When Aevalle fails to look properly impressed, she clarifies. “As like, a stowaway or whatever. Because!” And she slaps the stone beside her, a lopsided grin working its way onto her face. “Because somebody _here_ heard you were gonna take the fall for a whole fucking boat—a really big fucking boat—goin’ under the waves, and they sent a letter, and the letter had to go a ways because there wasn’t a fucking Jenny here. But.” She throws her hands in the air for dramatic effect. “Here I am! Red fucking Jenny. All the way from Val Royeaux.”

Aevalle applauds politely.

The young woman, her hands still thrown out in the air, tilts her head to the side. “What the fuck was I saying?” she asks.

At this point, Solas clears his throat.

They both turn. The blonde elf squints at him curiously, but Aevalle’s face lights up at the sight of him—only temporarily, until she seems to remember their earlier argument, and she makes some effort to school her features to resemble something passive.

“I have been looking for you,” he says. To his great surprise, it does not leave his lips sounding like an accusation—it sounds like relief. Like an apology.

She attempts a smile in response. The result is a little lopsided, a little wary—but she raises her hands and signs, _I didn’t mean to worry you again._

“Oh,” says the stranger. She scrambles to her feet—and for a horrifying moment Solas thinks she will topple right over the edge of the wall, but she corrects herself, hopping to the solid stone of the battlement and marching directly over to Solas.

She jams her finger in his chest, and it is so sudden and _hard_ that he actually moves a full step backward. “ _You_ made my new friend cry.”

He glances over her shoulder at Aevalle, who looks as shocked as he does at this turn of events.

 _I didn’t say that_ , she signs. A little sloppily.

“Hey! Look at me!”

He does. She has taken a full step back, and is rolling up her rather colourful sleeves.

“You gonna deny it?”

He folds his arms behind his back and straightens his shoulders. “I cannot,” he says, meeting this stranger’s gaze evenly, without reservation. “We had an argument, during which I was insensitive. Who was in the right is unimportant—that I have hurt her deeply is.”

The stranger scowls in confusion. Over her shoulder, he can see Aevalle smile.

“What— _whatever_.” She drops into something resembling a boxing position, her fists raised before her face. “I don’t care for all your fancy—you made my friend cry, now I gotta fight you. That _important_ enough for you?”

Aevalle buries her face in her hands.

“I understand,” Solas says. He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. “I will allow you to throw the first blow.”

“Wha...?”

It is surprisingly difficult not to laugh at Aevalle’s expression—of which he has a perfect view, over the blonde elf’s shoulder. Few things he has done have surprised her so thoroughly, he thinks—and she is positively mortified, scrambling to her feet and signing frantically.

The stranger only grins. “Now you’re speakin’ my language,” she says, and reels back.

When the fist comes— _painfully_ slow, and poorly-aimed besides—Solas merely steps to one side, and allows her entire body to follow through.

She does not quite fall—though she nearly does, a few heavy stumbling steps punctuating her attempt to steady herself. And she whirls, laughing—in the way that only the truly drunk laugh, her steps carrying her backwards still, until her back touches the wall.

“You’re—fuck—you’re _funny_ ,” she says, sliding down the wall. “That’s a _laugh_. I’ll hit you proper this time, come here.”

“I’d rather not,” Solas replies.

Aevalle kneels by her new friend, trying her hardest not to laugh. And she is certainly drunk enough herself—as she crouches, he sees her movements mirror the push and pull of the tide, a _slight_ sway back and forth even as she tries to be still.

“Don’t worry,” the elf says to Aevalle, grinning from ear to ear, as she places a few well-meaning pats on her shoulder. “We still got that other thing.”

Aevalle looks up at Solas. She signs up at him, _Help me get her to bed?_

And the elf—whose name is apparently Sera, he quickly discovers—is compliant enough with an arm slung over either one of their shoulders. Though he is uncertain when she directs him to the tavern, Bull is still there and laughs at the sight of her, and carries her the rest of the way up the stairs to her room for them.

There is a moment, then—when all the focus is away from them and to Bull, to Sera complaining loudly as he throws her over one shoulder and begins a slow, dramatic march up the stairs. A moment where the world is whirling around them and for once does not _include_ them, does not carry Aevalle up in the commotion and away from him.

She is smiling up at Sera, waving a little—the candlelight warm in her hair, the earlier sorrows chased from her eyes. And she turns to him, and the smile remains.

His heart is in his throat, and he finds he cannot speak. So he raises his hands instead, and signs, _I am sorry._

She blinks—and the shape of her smile changes. She nods, in gratitude, but her eyes are glittering again, and he takes advantage of Sera’s ability to steal the attention of the entire room and bids her walk with him, out the door and into the relative quiet of the street.

There is a little path that leads along the ocean’s edge, down to the beach, and Solas does not expect it to be private. But the further they walk from the town the fewer people they see, until their only company is the long curve of beach, all the stones scattered along the shore gleaming like so many little stars on the sand, white in the light of the waxing moon.

When they are alone, and the lights of the town and the keep far behind them, she stops to sit on the shore. He sits beside her, not waiting for an invitation—and he does not mention that she sits just above where the waves lap, her knees curled up to her chest and her bare toes not quite touching the line the water leaves on the sand.

She looks out to the water and signs, _I couldn’t protect them._

And—and there are no words for the ache in his heart, at the sentiment. To feel it echoed there. No words to ease it, either; _that_ he knows well enough.

And she keeps signing, the glitter of tears streaming down her face as the moon rises. _I’m a hunter, I’m supposed to protect them. But they’re all gone, Solas, and for what? What even was the point of all that death, if the world just goes on? Why am I the one left standing, when I can’t even sing the songs anymore? Why?_

And the rest Solas cannot understand—her shoulders begin to shake, a tremor that follows to her hands, and her breathing is wracked by silent, choking sobs. And he cannot leave her be, silenced by her own wretched, wretched grief.

So he holds her—her winds his arms around her, a soft _hush_ escaping his lips. And she turns into him without any further invitation, curling her fingers into his shirt and burying her face in his chest. She clings to him, sobbing into his clothing, and he finds it the simplest thing in the world to hold her, to have his arms shielding her small form from the wind, his chin resting on her head.

He has never had so little to offer—not even words, not even the promise that _it will be alright_. He curls his fingers in her hair and breathes, _in_ and _out_ with the push and pull of the ocean beside them, steady and familiar even after all this time.

He has no black coral—has not seen its like for untold ages. He cannot offer her sealskin to keep the wind from her shoulders, let alone the glittering skin and scales of creatures this world will never see again. He has given her all the protection he can offer, and it is a fragile thing; his whims are not those that will keep her safe, however he might wish it.

And yet as she shakes against him, keening without sound, though he does not know _her_ songs— _this_ he can offer. Just this one thing.

“ _Falon, na melana sahlin_ ,” he sings.

She stills.

His voice is—uncertain. He was never praised for any ability with music, and it had, in truth, never held much interest for him. He has some difficulty keeping to the rhythm—the ocean is so _impossibly_ close, where he might reach out and touch it.

But he can feel her every breath against him, the tremble of her shoulders beneath his arms, and she is _warm_ , steadying, impossibly bright against the chill of the night air and the darkness of the sky. So he sings. And his voice grows steadier, stronger—and still she cries, though it is softer now, and her fingers curl more fiercely in his clothing, digging into the skin beneath.

When the song has ended and his voice has trailed off, overtaken by the gentle lapping of waves over sand and stone, she does not pull away. He maps the movement of the moon across the sky as her sobs slow, until she has cried herself out.

Before she pulls away, she presses closer—breathing against him, in and out with the movement of the sea. He cannot help but match her—cannot help but let that steady them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falon, na melana sahlin - [Elven eulogy](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language#The_Elvish_Eulogy). Originally meant for those entering uthenera; now used by the Dalish as a funeral song.
> 
> Honestly this is me we're talking about and I can't believe we made it this long before Sad Elf Time happened.


	6. Take This Reprieve

In his dream, Solas ‘wakes’ to the sound of rain on sailcloth over his head.

His eyes flutter open, and—there is a hazy dream forming around him. Not one he has summoned—and he frowns curiously at the shapes beginning to curl around him. The curve of a wooden boat, the softness and musky smell of furs covering him, the rocking of the little boat as it is pushed and pulled by the gentle tide. There is the soft light of a grey morning filtering through the sailcloth—and he peers up at it to find that it has been rigged to cover the boat, giving him enough room to sit up, should he wish.

Then, the warmth of another person, pressed against him under the furs. Soft, steady breath on his neck—cold hands curling against his chest, lithe legs entwined with his. The slide of skin on skin as she shifts, then settles once again—as the _dream_ settles. He blinks, and his vision is filled with brilliant red curls of hair.

It has—been some time, since he dreamed like _this_. When he breathes, it is almost a huff of laughter at his own blind optimism, his wishful thinking. Although the boat is certainly new.

It is peaceful, he thinks—enclosed in a cocoon of boat and sail and fur, the push and pull of the ocean that is so _close_ , he can feel it singing in his bones. And that there is a soft form, wrapped around his, pressing her face into the curve of his neck and _breathing_ , until he can feel the shape of her smile on his skin—

He closes his eyes. He will begin to ponder at the edges of this strange dream, in just a moment. Perhaps he will find a spirit of Comfort, or Safety—although he thinks Desire more likely, as his hand trails down the curve of her back and finds the flesh there unbroken by scars.

It will be an interesting conversation, he thinks, when he does reveal the spirit for what it is—but he has not felt such ease in... Well. Such a long time—and as little as he deserves it, he will take this reprieve with gratitude.

So he buries his face in her hair—finding it smells of seafoam and sand, of cedar and dogwood, of rich earth and sealskin—and when he finds it in the mess made of her curls he presses his lips to her forehead. A luxury he will allow himself in dreaming—just this once.

 

He wakes in truth to the warm light of late morning, in a bed that is not his own, and limbs entwined with his own beneath thick, scratching blankets.

He has enough frame of mind to think, _this is strange_ , but his thoughts are still too muddled from the closeness of sleep—and of _her_ , curled up against him exactly as she was in the dream. Although both of them are still fully clothed, which he finds disappointing, especially compared to the softness of her flesh against his in dreaming.

Under the blankets, he is overly warm—and the collar of his shirt has twisted about his neck. He shifts to fix it, moving one hand from the small of her back—the other, pinned beneath her, is so numb he cannot feel it—but the movement causes her to stir, her breath to brush what skin of his neck is exposed in a displeased _huff_.

And then all at once, she goes completely still.

Still half-asleep, Solas almost asks her what’s wrong. But she leaps from the bed before he can even open his mouth—and he tries to sit up, to follow her movement, but the arm that was pinned beneath her is all pins and needles, and he collapses onto his front with a soft _grunt_.

His face half-buried in the bedding, he peers out at her—and she is standing, staring at him with an expression that is rapidly shifting from open shock into something softer. And then she is smiling and—her shoulders shake, and her hand moves to cover her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” he manages to ask. It is—exceedingly difficult, having woken up only moments ago.

She shakes her head. And she moves her hand from her mouth to sign, _Nothing!_

He doesn’t believe her—her smile is far too coy. But she is framed so sweetly by the soft light coming in the window, and her hair is such a beautiful disaster, her clothes in a lovely disarray that he cannot help a smile in return.

Beggars’ clothes, he thinks, compared to what he might have given her in times long gone. But with the buttons half undone, and her shirt sliding off her shoulder to expose it to the delicate morning light—

She follows the trail of his gaze, and her hand goes to her throat, still wrapped in dark, soft material.

 _I am not supposed to be in here_ , he remembers, and his brow furrows once more.

He opens his mouth, to wonder perhaps why he is in _her_ room and not _his_ , but she jumps in place, startled by some stray thought he cannot imagine.

 _I’m late_! she signs, and darts out of his field of vision. Still too groggy to follow where she’s gone, he makes an—embarrassingly poor—attempt to roll over before she darts back in front of him, her shirt missing.

Her hands are moving, and she is beginning to sign something, but he throws a hand over his eyes so he will not stare at her breasts.

“I saw nothing,” he lies, as if he has any clue what she has just tried to tell him.

She breathes something not unlike an aggravated sigh, and he listens to her stomp around the room, opening and closing drawers frantically. He hears the rustle of clothing—and something soft and warm collides with his head, presumably her pants, but he dares not move it. Then the sounds of skirts being pulled up, and he thinks that strange because she has not worn her borrowed dress once since she discovered she did not have to.

She shakes his leg until he pulls the pants off his face and sits up.

She is wearing the brown dress, undone at the back—and her hair is still an utter mess, he thinks, with a fond smile.

 _Lace me up_ , she requests, her hands moving with great urgency. Then she turns to face the small vanity mirror, exposing her back to him as she tries to make some sense of what her hair has done in the night.

 _Oh_ , is all he thinks, staring at the expanse of her back. Because what he glimpsed of her form those weeks ago did not do her justice—where she was starved, now there is muscle moving under her flesh, the lines of her shoulder blades shifting as she frantically combs back her hair with her fingers.

And yes, there are scars—and he does not know _where_ they came from, but he has guesses enough to fill the undercroft of Skyhold. The sight of them only brings him back to the dream, his hand pressed into the small of her back—

His cheeks are warm. She scowls at his reflection in the mirror, and turns long enough to chastise him.

 _I will never understand how everyone here is so terrified of a little skin_.

Terrified is not precisely the word he would use, in this instance—but she turns again, and there is such an urgency about her that he finds the presence of mind to swing his legs off the bed.

He stands behind her and laces up her gown—trying not to see his own reflection in the mirror, head bowed just above her shoulder. Trying not to think of how much he— _likes_ that image. The intimacy of it, and all it implies.

And very suddenly he remembers the night before—her confession on the beach, holding her there. And when they returned to the keep, her horrified expression as he began to open his door.

 _No, no, no,_ she signed, wide-eyed. _You can’t go in there_.

No matter how he promised not to be angry, she offered no explanation—although how precisely she convinced him, he is not entirely certain. He remembers protesting, and then— _I’m Dalish, we like to cuddle_ —

He ties the worn ribbon. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are very, very red in the mirror.

She is still fussing with her hair, so Solas ignores his own discomfort and steals a blue ribbon from the vanity. He gathers her hair with quick, deft movements, and secures it into a tight bun at the back of her head.

A few curls spring out the moment he moves his hands. But her relief is immediate—and she turns and plants a grateful kiss to his cheek before she flies from the room, leaving the door open behind her.

He stares after her.

“Surrounded by sea and sky, wrapped and wound up in furs and arms— _no walls to keep me, only him_.”

Solas turns, startled—and there is Cole, perched on the windowsill, his pale gaze directed somewhere beyond the opposite wall—his eyes flicking once, twice, as if following something Solas cannot see.

“She thinks it was a nice dream, too,” the spirit says, softly.

He can only gape—even as Cole’s gaze shifts, and lands on Solas instead.

“There are still snakes in your room.”

 “What?”

Cole sounds a little embarrassed. “I... couldn’t find them all. Sorry.”

 

Madame Vivienne is not accustomed to waiting for someone of such a low station.

The girl is a good hour late, according to her timepiece, when she finally bursts through the door wearing a demure brown dress, her hair pulled away from her face in a strict bun. She is clearly out of breath, as if she has run across half the fortress.

She bows so low she is practically prostrating herself—the movement almost too quick for Vivienne’s sharp gaze to focus on the peculiarities of it that she had noticed when they first met. Sweeping and _very_ low, and even though she is wearing a skirt it is _still_ not a curtsey, as would be proper.

She unbends and begins to sign, frantically. Vivienne watches the patterns attentively, trying to discern one from another, while the aide who has been sitting around uselessly for nearly an hour and a half now jumps nearly to attention.

“Ah, she is apologizing for being late, Madame,” the aide clarifies.

 _I gathered_ , Vivienne thinks but does not say, a single raised brow the only sign of her annoyance. “My dear,” she says instead, rising from her chair in a single, smooth motion, “did you run across the fortress to meet with me? You look exhausted, please, come sit.”

Miss Lavellan, clearly trying and failing to keep her open terror under control, nods and follows Vivienne’s lead into the small salon.

She supposes it will have to do as it is for this venture—the drapery is hardly what she would consider in current fashion, and the cushions on the chairs are not as disarmingly comfortable as she would like. But all in all Josephine has done an acceptable job of readying the room for her on such short notice—where Vivienne sees furniture that is not quite right, or a disappointing lack of regal paintings on the walls, Miss Lavellan looks at the glittering baubles and delicate crystals hanging from the light fixtures with a wide-eyed expression.

There is something about her that does not seem _quite_ as in awe at her surroundings as most in her station would be, Vivienne notes—although when Lavellan’s gaze turns to her host once they are seated, the sentiment is clear on her face as her eyes flick up and down Vivienne’s dress, jewellery, fine hat... and, most interesting, the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones.

Any other in her position would likely chastise the young Miss Lavellan for such open admiration, but Vivienne only smiles gently in response.

Miss Lavellan returns the smile, and some of her wariness eases.

“You must be curious, Miss Lavellan, why I asked you to join me today,” Vivienne prompts, as the aide moves to a place in the room where they have a clearer line of sight to her guest. “Although you should not be so surprised—there is a great deal of talk about you in Val Royeaux.”

There is something other than fear in the girl’s expression then—and Vivienne barely catches it before it is gone. A flicker of anger, perhaps? Something defiant? Replaced rather quickly by wide eyes and a slightly perplexed form of terror that rings slightly false, now that Vivienne has seen it crack.

Equally fascinating and telling in turns, that.

Miss Lavellan begins to sign—and stalls when the aide does not immediately begin to interpret.

“Ah,” the aide begins, “a bit slower, please?”

A flash of annoyance, at that, and the sight of it almost makes Vivienne laugh. She sets aside her own amusement to wonder at the reason—clearly she is unaccustomed to people not understanding her. Because she was always surrounded by those who did, or because this method of communication is new to her?

Vivienne watches her sign, and thinks the latter unlikely. These do not look like gestures made up on the fly—there seems to be a grammatical structure, a pattern. And it is not limited to the hands, either—her expressions lend flavour to what she is attempting to say, her shoulders and her whole body sometimes twisting to make a word or impart meaning.

“She—she says she cannot imagine why word of her has travelled so far.”

Miss Lavellan scowls. Then repeats herself—with short, jerking motions.

“No? Oh, no, you are _asking_. Apologies, Miss Lavellan. She wants to know... what _sort_ of word has travelled so far?”

She inclines her head, but does not look entirely satisfied.

“Nothing worth repeating my dear,” Vivienne assures her, just as the parlour door opens and breakfast arrives.

Plates are set on the table between lines of cutlery that have been sitting there, waiting, the entire time. Tea is poured, cream and sugar added to Vivienne’s—Miss Lavellan takes hers black—and the Madame sips her tea while the servants leave, watching with a hawk’s gaze as the girl before her takes the furthest outward fork and knife between her fingers to cut into the biscuit and egg offered her. Her grip on the fine silver awkward—but no hesitation in the choice of which one.

The aide, as Vivienne predicted, is utterly useless. It takes them seven attempts to (most likely incorrectly) interpret, “Miss Lavellan would like to know about Val Royeaux, as she has only heard of its beauty.” Four, then, for, “What are your duties in court?” and a rather embarrassing _fifteen_ for, “The colour of your dress is beautiful, what is the dye made from?”

She watches as Miss Lavellan grows slowly more frustrated. As her hands begin to shake, as her signs become sharp and more direct. Single words instead of sentences. Vivienne learns what, _That’s not what I said,_ looks like well enough to replicate it in a matter of minutes.

She learns a great deal about Miss Lavellan from their hour long breakfast—that she admires expensive things, but does not seem to covet them. That her favourite colour is the same deep, deep blue that Vivienne has chosen to wear today. That she is familiar with fine dining, although not comfortable with it— _but she does not curtsey_ , and the significance of that is not lost on Vivienne.

Perhaps most importantly—that she is not in any way pretending to be mute to garner sympathy, or to divert suspicion.

Miss Lavellan’s third near-argument with the aide about their interpretation skills is interrupted by the third course being cleared and made room for _petits fours_ , and she sits there, seething in silence.

Vivienne opens her mouth to send the aide away, to spare the poor girl any further frustration, when one of the servants says, “I can understand her better. You can leave.”

She raises a brow in surprise, in spite of herself—she had not _arranged_ for a more suitable interpretor, but it seems Miss Montiliyet has outdone herself once again. She glances up at the utter relief that passes across the aide’s features as they leave, and making his way to stand directly next to their table is a rather simply dressed young man with a broad hat.

She tries not to frown up at him—something about the pallor of his skin reminds her of a drowned corpse, and he smells vaguely of the sea.

“Thank you,” she says instead, directing her attention to Miss Lavellan once again. “You were saying you were a, hunter, with your clan?” she asks, lifting her teacup and saucer.

The lad begins to speak almost before Miss Lavellan begins to sign.

“Spray and seafoam on my face, halla racing beside the _aravel_ —the sun is high and the seals dance away but _the wind is on my side_ , the snap of sails and creak of rope. Make it quick, make it clean—hand the heart to the Huntress, and give the rest around the fire at night. And there are soft hands making words in the air— _come here, little heart_ , _let your papae tell you a story about the sharks under the waves_. She signs as he sings—you never had one without the other. Until suddenly you didn’t—and then you had neither, and you’ve never felt full since.”

Lavellan stopped signing at the mention of halla. She stares up at the strange young man with wide eyes as he drifts off into an impossible silence.

“Oh,” he says, at length. “You didn’t say that, you felt it. I got it mixed up again.”

“How did you get in here?” Vivienne asks, finally realising that the boy’s faded and threadbare clothes are _not_ the servant’s uniform.

“Through the door,” he replies. “How did you?”

Miss Lavellan’s hand flies to her mouth, poorly disguising her silent laughter.

“There’s music,” the boy says suddenly, reaching and taking Miss Lavellan’s hand. She blinks at it, but does not protest as he pulls her from her seat. “It needs you to hear it—you’ll make it better.”

Vivienne moves to rise from her chair, to protest—

—but finds herself sitting in it a moment later, sipping her tea. Wondering how she let Miss Lavellan leave the room without even tasting the _macaron_.

 

“Chuckles!”

The elf turns, scowling down at Varric as the dwarf struggles to catch up. The day is uncomfortably hot—already Varric can feel sweat pooling around the back of his neck. Even Solas has rolled up his sleeves, although the buttons of his shirt are still all done up. His clothes look oddly wrinkled, but Varric doesn’t pay it much mind—probably just spent all night making ridiculous drawings of Aevalle while pretending he’s working, only to fall asleep in his chair. Though it is odd to see him alone these days, Varric thinks—and allows himself a small smile at how different that is from less than a month ago.

He’s certainly much more pleasant with her around, anyway.

“Varric. I thought you would still be writing away, this early in the afternoon.”

“Hit a little block, need some more... _inspiration_. No Drifter today?” he prods, and can’t help a grin at the deepening of Solas’ frown as they fall in step with one another. “You two still fighting?”

The faint flush that appears on the tips of Solas’ ears is certainly _not_ the reaction Varric expects. He takes an absurd delight in it anyway.

“No,” the elf says, perhaps a little quickly. “We... came to an understanding.”

“An understanding,” Varric parrots. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

As they near the open gates to the town, Varric sees the Iron Bull, leaning against the wall and chatting with the guards. He waves at them as they approach, and as they pass Varric hears him say, “... and I swear her tits were... you get the idea. Hey! Solas!”

They pause to wait for Bull, who catches up to them in a few lumbering steps and immediately throws his arm over Solas. “You sly dog,” the giant Qunari says, pulling Solas close to him in a one-armed embrace. “Didn’t think you had it in you! Where’s the lucky lady? Still sleeping off your wild night, eh?”

Varric doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone go so red before in his life. “ _No_ ,” he blurts, a shit-eating grin spreading across his features. “Chuckles!”

“That is not,” Solas sputters. “I would not—”

“Oh?” Bull interrupts, squeezing Solas so close that the elf’s feet are actually off the ground and the Qunari carries him a few steps. “Come on, that was a romantic moment you two had while I carried Sera up the stairs. Which you have yet to thank me for, by the way. And Krem tells me you two went for a long walk on the beach... didn’t come back for _hours_. Hey, don’t look at me like that, he didn’t _follow_ you.”

His feet firmly on the ground again, Solas forcibly removes Bull’s arm from his shoulders.

“I can’t _believe_ I missed that!” Varric throws his hands in the air. “Of all the—tell me everything! Okay not everything, apparently there are decency laws or something. But—did she look up at you and bat her eyelashes? Or, wait, did you make her so angry that she grabbed your face and—”

“We _talked_ ,” Solas snaps. “Nothing more.”

“Oh?” Bull bumps Solas’ arm with his own. “Then where did you sleep last night? Pretty sure you wore that shirt yesterday.”

“I was informed that my room was filled with _snakes_ ,” Solas replies, adjusting his vest with a sharp downward tug. “And I was unable to sleep there. I have spent all morning clearing them out, so _forgive_ me if I have not had the opportunity to change my clothing.”

“Didn’t answer my question,” Bull remarks with a smirk.

Solas continues to ignore him. And Varric would like to join in the teasing—but as they walk through the town, there is a sound of a fiddle, playing a song that Varric _swears_ he’s heard before.

In the town square, there is quite a gathering of people forming, rather inconveniently blocking Varric’s view of what, exactly is going on. But the fiddle player is clearly in the midst of it—and as Varric peers through the gaps in between people, he can see dancers being led into the center of the circle.

“Who’s that kid?” Bull wonders.

“I don’t know,” Varric complains. “Why don’t you use your ability to effortlessly peer over the heads of everyone here and give us a little more information than that?”

The Qunari smiles, crossing his arms and examining the crowd with a single, sweeping glance. “Oh, you know, looks like a party, simple as anything—a fiddle player, some kid pulling everyone in to dance... did you know Aevalle played the fiddle, Solas?”

From the look on his face, clearly he did not. But then he frowns a little, as if considering something. “Describe them for me—the one getting people to dance.”

“Huh? Well he’s sort of... got a big hat. Weird, it’s like he’s a little...”

Solas sighs. “Cole,” he says, as if it means anything. Then he slips into the crowd without another word, and Varric follows after him with a curse.

Of course he loses Solas within minutes—the press of bodies around him yielding a little less easily to a stockier, shorter form. But the crowd thins in front of him as more people are pulled to dancing by a pale-eyed human with a very strange hat, and Varric stands with his vision obscured only by the whirl of laughing couples as they move around the fountain.

A great deal of people here are not particularly _good_ at dancing, Varric thinks—never mind that this is hardly what he’s seen in the extravagant balls and overindulgent _soirée_ s he’s been unlucky enough to attend. But there is a great deal more laughter, he thinks, watching the strange boy press the hands of total strangers together with what seems like utter randomness.

Then he pulls a Vashoth man from the crowd, and urges him to the fountain instead. Varric watches curiously as the man pulls a small flute— _laughably_ small, compared to the size of his hands—from his jacket, and bring it to his lips.

Beside him, Aevalle plays a fiddle on the edge of the fountain.

He has _no_ idea where she got it—the fiddle itself looks like it’s been through the Deep Roads and back. There’s an old dwarven woman sitting next to her, dressed in rags that match the fiddle’s condition, and covered in enough dirt to match—but she _beams_ , bringing her old hands together to the quick, bright rhythm Aevalle is setting.

Aevalle’s wearing a dress, unusual for her—and one of the ones Josephine had given her, still too long. So she’s tucked one side of the skirt into her belt, just enough to expose a good length of one leg all wound up in those footwraps, the other up to her ankle. And she is _dancing_ , as much as her playing will allow—swaying back and forth, bobbing and rising and falling with the rhythm, as though she cannot keep still.

The Vashoth plays alongside her, his large fingers surprisingly nimble as he picks up her melody, the clear notes of his little flute sailing alongside the bright sounds she is coaxing out of that beat up fiddle.

 _Daisy_ , he thinks, suddenly remembering the song—one of those Dalish ones she used to sing. Popular in the alienage districts, where so many of her people came after there was no more land for them to wander. Where so many Vashoth, escaping the Qun, slipped in, bowing their heads in the factories alongside elves and dwarves alike.

_And if I chance to catch your eye, don’t you turn away! If by chance you’ve changed your mind then meet me by the waves!_

Just where the circle made by the crowd bends, Varric sees Solas standing there—and there is a warmth to his features as he watches her play, a fond smile creeping to his lips. And something a little sad—a little bit like _longing_ , Varric thinks.

He’s seen that look before, across crowded taverns and busy streets—worn it a few times, himself, when he was much younger.

 _Go ask her to dance, Chuckles_ , he thinks, but Solas stays where he is.

Three songs and an impossible number of whirling, laughing couples later, Aevalle hands the fiddle back to the old dwarven woman and the crowd dissipates. There is a generous amount of coin thrown into a handkerchief at the old woman’s feet, and Aevalle and the Vashoth man help her gather it all up, then tuck it safely away on her person.

And of _course_ they have to walk the woman home—overburdened with no small amount of coin, she is delighted when Bull offers to escort her, and everyone else walks along with them. The Vashoth man— _Adaar_ —chats with Bull, asking about the Chargers and swapping stories about their respective mercenary companies, while Varric walks alongside the old dwarven lady and endures some markedly senseless prattle about _the stone_.

Solas and Aevalle hang back—and with his back to them, Varric is _furiously_ oblivious to whatever they are saying behind him—the comfortable silence behind him punctuated occasionally by Solas’ soft laughter.

The old woman’s home is filled to the brim with children from Maker-knows where—Vashoth and Elf and Human alike—and it is more a lean-to on the outskirts of town than any _real_ shelter.

Bull is—markedly quiet, at the sight of two skinny Vashoth children playing, their horns little stubs on their heads. Adaar greets them eagerly and with brightness—and then they are all gathering up what tools they can find, repairing holes and filling cracks.

They spend the rest of the day there, alternatively repairing the lean-to or playing with the children. Aevalle’s strange new friend reappears with Blackwall in tow, a bag full of real tools with him, and the work becomes much easier with someone who actually knows what he’s doing around. Bull goes off for a while to get food, and returns with a druffalo leg on each shoulder, and company flanking him on either side. Cassandra on his right, her arms full of a basket of vegetables and bread, an elf Varric’s never met named Sera on his left, c arrying a box full of pilfered sweets for the children.

“What are the odds,” Varric wonders out loud, when the sun is setting over the water and they have all stopped for supper, “that Aevalle stumbles across the one old lady hiding a rundown orphanage just outside Seahold? Just like that?”

The boy standing beside him, shading Varric’s head from the sun with his broad hat, tilts his head slightly. “She’d forgotten it didn’t have to hurt, to make music again. The Nice Lady needed someone to see her, so the children could have full bellies again. See? Everyone’s smiling, now.”

Cassandra is sitting next to the old dwarven woman as they eat, her bowl resting in her lap. “I believe there are many suitable buildings in town that stand empty,” she is saying. “I will arrange for guards for you for tonight, and tomorrow I will have one of them cleaned out for your use.”

The woman shakes her head. “But I quite like the view of the sea, here,” she says—and Varric is not imagining the nervousness about her as she says it.

Cassandra smiles then—surprisingly soft, Varric thinks. “Then perhaps we might build something a big bigger here,” she says. “But for now—would you settle for something a little closer to the keep, until it is finished?”

“Yeah,” Sera says—from where she is lying on the ground, ticking the youngest child’s toes. “Look lady, trust me, you want somewhere a little safer than almost kinda the middle of nowhere. Nice view don’t really cut it when people don’t know where you are.”

A little ways away from everyone else, Solas sits with Aevalle—so close that their knees might bump together with the slightest movement, but still not touching.

“Did you not wish to dance with the others? There was a grace to your movements as you played; I hate to think of it wasted.”

A coquettish smile. _So you’re suggesting I’m graceful?_

“No, I am declaring it. It was never a matter of debate.”

Too bold by far for a simple artist, Varric thinks, soft-spoken and wearing humble clothing. And he can’t help but smile at the surprised delight that lights up Aevalle’s face—so briefly and so quickly suppressed, with a quick glance at the present company.

Or, it seems, at the gentleness about Solas as he looks at her—a warm smile softening the sharp lines of his features, chasing away the creases in his brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes that was quick but I've been waiting to get to this chapter for weeks now _I'm very excited for it okay_
> 
> Also work has been a bit slow so I guess I have more time for writing and that helps. (What is this actually working eight hour shifts thing)


	7. I am Sharper, Still

The week following Cassandra’s arrival is filled with more company than Solas thought he would ever find when he first passed through Seahold’s gates.

The new orphanage, a stone’s throw from Seahold itself, becomes something of a project for the people who have gathered around Aevalle. When Vivienne learns of it, she quickly recommends several of her own people as teachers for the children—simple things, at first, that quickly blossom into reading and writing and how to properly address everyone in their lives from the butcher all the way up to Cassandra, who is so insistent on never being called _Lady Pentaghast_ ever that the lesson doesn’t seem to firmly stick.

Cullen takes delight in having something for Skyhold’s forces to do that can be considered _productive_ , and it isn’t long before half the barracks has done time there, scrubbing walls or building furniture.

“You’ve done well,” he says to Aevalle, the third afternoon they are there.

Solas, helping Josephine organise what can be salvaged from the building’s interior, can’t help but overhear. He glances over his shoulder to find Cullen standing near her, across the yard.

She is taking a reprieve from clearing the rubble of a collapsed wall with Sera and Blackwall—her sleeves and the legs of her pants rolled up in the heat of the day as she drinks from their communal water bucket with a ladle. Her usual scarf has been abandoned for a simple wrapping of thin, dark fabric around her neck. Her hair is strictly braided away from her face, and sweat glistening on her exposed brow.

She drops the ladle back into the bucket to sign, _What do you mean?_

“Ah,” Cullen starts, then rubs his hand through his curls, self consciously. “I’m sorry, I haven’t learned as much as I should... which is to say I’ve learned very little...”

Blackwall, nearest to her, interprets for Cullen. “I think she’s asking for you to explain what you mean. Right, lass?”

She nods, with a forgiving smile towards Cullen. Nervous, still—although the heat and the labour of the day seem to have exhausted most of her ability to feel unease in general.

Cullen sighs. “You’ve done very well for yourself since coming here,” he tells her. “Not just this,” he adds, waving at the orphanage in progress. “But—I know that I was not immediately accommodating, in particular. You came to us at a strange time.”

She signs—slowly, so Blackwall can understand her.

“She says that you were right to be... Sorry, one more time?”

Sera scoffs. “She says, ‘I was really suspicious, I get it.’ Easy.” When everyone turns at once and looks at her, Sera straightens and looks upward, as if at a particularly interesting bird. “What? S’not _hard_ , all that hand waivin’, not like you lot make it out to be.”

Beside Solas, Cole whispers, “Sitting up every night, Varric signs and she signs back, over and over... _I will make her feel like people_.”

Solas smiles. In spite of the number of snakes he had to clear out of his room.

Cullen’s expression falls, then. He opens his mouth, as if he wants to ask something—but only closes it, and shakes his head.

“Good work today,” he says instead, and walks away.

During his morning sittings with Cassandra, Varric begins to tag along so that Aevalle can ask as many questions as she pleases—and although Varric complains that he is being woken early or dragged away from his writing, he takes obvious pleasure in getting Cassandra riled up.

_I’ve never had my portrait painted_ , Aevalle signs. _Is it always like this?_

“It is usually a great deal less... _busy_ ,” Cassandra tells her with an uncharacteristically fond smile. “And significantly more dull.”

But the afternoons spent at the orphanage are when real progress is made—Sera sits on Bull’s shoulders and pulls dead rats out of the rafters, swinging them back and forth by their tales to make Aevalle laugh where she stands, shoulder to shoulder with Cassandra, tearing rotten wood from the walls.

Once, they pause for supper and Solas looks up—from where he is teaching some of the children to draw with sticks of charcoal—to find Cassandra, Aevalle, and Cole sitting on the roof together, their feet swinging over the side, chatting amiably, warm food in their bowls. Aevalle is signing, the sun at her back so he cannot make out the words, but he can hear Cassandra laugh, softly, in response to whatever Cole tells her Aevalle means.

 

“He is a Spirit of Compassion,” Solas explains one evening, when Cole and Aevalle are his only company in the study. The fire has burned low, and a soft summer breeze is blowing through the windows. The moon is nearly full to brimming, the sea so full and close that Solas’ skin is itching. “I found him soon after my arrival here, and have been keeping him a secret ever since. Though I am not certain yet what drew him here.”

“So many all gathering, hopes bright and hurts louder,” Cole says, wringing his hands together. “I wanted to help.”

“ _Ir abelas, lethallan._ I should have told you about him before, however...”

Aevalle waves his apology off. Still looking all too pleased at the term of familiarity between them, even though he’s been using it in private since that evening on the beach. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her normal place right before the fire. _You were not certain how I would react_.

He exhales. “Precisely. You are... taking this remarkably well.”

She shrugs—still looking at Cole, she tilts her head to the side, smiling a little. _My people have stories about spirits_ , she signs. _And besides, if he’s helping old ladies and orphans, how bad can he be?_

Solas’ jaw clenches.

“Don’t have the heart to tell her,” Cole murmurs. “A man choking for air, or on everything he’s done, and—and a knife in the dark is kinder, in the long run. Clean. Quick.”

Aevalle doesn’t react—her smile falters, some, but not in fear as Solas expects. In a kind of melancholy, or regret.

“You’re only one person. You did what you could,” Cole whispers. “They liked you best smiling, remember?”

She wipes at her eyes with the side of her palm, nodding.

A knock at the door interrupts their conversation. Solas gestures for Aevalle to stay when she makes to rise, and answers it himself—giving her time to compose herself a little.

On the other side of the door is Sera, who scowls at him when he opens it.

“Ugh, not _you_. Aevalle here? I need her... elfiness.”

“For what?” Solas asks—and he _tries_ not to be snappish, but this deep into the night, with the moon so near to full, he can hear everything a little clearer, and the disgusted roll of her words over her tongue is setting him on edge.

“It’s a _secret_ ,” Sera says. She stands on her toes to peer over Solas’ shoulder—then _grins_ at Aevalle. “Hey! Found somethin’ _big_ , wanna see it?”

Solas frowns, trying to figure out what Sera could have possibly stumbled upon. But there is a gentle touch on his shoulder, and he turns to give her space to speak to Sera through the door. Does not leave the doorframe, really—he is perfectly happy keeping Sera and the hypothetical amount of trouble she might cause _away_ from his primary place of work.

_What did you find_?

“Dunno. Looks big an’ elfy, though—figure you might as well ‘ave a go at it, yeah? Maybe you can get it to open.”

“In the middle of the night,” Solas says, before Aevalle can ask any further.

“Well, _yeah_.” Sera shrugs, leaning dramatically against the wall just outside the door. “Best time for sneakin’ around. Findin’ weird shite in an old place like this.”

Solas opens his mouth to protest further, but Aevalle nudges him in the side with her elbow.

_Let’s all go,_ she suggests, looking more at Solas than at Sera.

Sera makes a noise Solas will not dignify with a description or a response.

 

“Tell me again,” Solas says, when they are all waist-deep in seawater, wading through a flooded corridor lit only by the torches Solas, Cole and Sera carry, “why you found a completely flooded hallway and decided to explore it at a tide that is very near to the highest of the month.”

“Wazzat?” Sera’s eyes are green circles as she peers over her shoulder at him, her own torch casting her face into interesting shadows.

“... You have no idea how tides work, do you?”

“Sometimes they’re up, sometimes they’re down. Simple, yeah?”

Solas sighs. Aevalle elbows his arm, playfully—and standing so near him, he can make out her signing.

_Relax, lethallin,_ she teases. _I’ll protect you from sharks._

Glancing at the spear she has ‘borrowed’ from the barracks for this venture, strapped to her back, Solas believes she is more than capable of that promise.

To call the hallway crumbling would be kind, Solas thinks—broad enough across by far that even with elven sight and the aid of the torch, he cannot see the wall on his right side. At his left, he can barely even make out the smooth stone that composes the Keep’s base, covered as it is in a variety of dark-loving ocean life. Intertidal, most of it—molluscs and bivalves that cling to the old stone, their pale shells catching the light of the torches and reflecting it back, distorted through the murky water. Enough silt has filled it over the centuries that they do not walk on smooth stone, but a sandy ocean floor instead, and Solas has to duck a number of times to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

Half-submerged as he is, he can hardly ignore the way his whole being surges in response to the ocean, the way his heartbeat rises and falls with the power lurking in its depths. It is— _difficult_ not to reach for it. The effort alone makes his head spin.

At least it is not the open ocean—at least the connection here is dulled by the stone walls of the keep. He’s not sure how he would manage, otherwise.

“There are no sharks here,” Cole says, his voice sounding as if it covers more distance than is actually between him and Solas’ back. Certainly enough, dark shapes flit away under the water when the light of their torches approach, but nothing large enough to cause them any trouble. “The stone shook, the sea surged, and they had to hide, so deep and long they forgot anything else. Eels, though. Plenty of those.”

Sera visibly shudders.

“I am more concerned about us all _drowning_ ,” Solas says. “You are all aware the tide is still rising, yes? And this hallway seems to be leading us _down_ , not up.”

Sera’s answering quip is cut off with a yelp and a splash—and as she drops her own torch into the water before she goes under, Solas immediately loses sight of her, well beyond the edge of the light his own torch provides.

Before Solas can even react, Aevalle dives under with only the ease that living around the water one’s whole life can provide—she slips into the water with hardly a ripple in its surface to mark her passing.

Solas feels his heart rise to his throat—but Aevalle resurfaces before he can feel any real panic, Sera flailing and gasping for air as if she’d been under much longer. Hacking up a lung, though—probably took a breath that wasn’t air on the way down.

Cole whispers, “She can’t swim.”

Sera sputters and curses as Aevalle plants their feet on solid ground. Aevalle rubs her hand in broad, slow circles over Sera’s back—not to encourage coughing, Solas knows, but to calm her.

“Fuck.” Sera wipes her mouth with the back of her hand when she has finished coughing. “Did not—did _not_ happen last time. Think it was... not that high, earlier. The water. Fuck.”

“Perhaps,” Solas suggests, “we should turn back for now, and try again when the tide is lower.”

“Fuck that,” Sera says, still shaking. “Not doin’ this again. _Ever_. Let’s just... find it and get out, yeah?”

_I’ll lead_ , Aevalle signs, and any further protest Solas might offer is silenced when she reaches behind herself and slips the spear from her back.

Aevalle takes point from then on; there is only one way to go, after all. Sera stays close behind her, then Solas, then Cole, and they take care to walk in a straight line, to step only where Aevalle steps. She uses the end of her spear to test the sand before her for drops like the one Sera stumbled upon.

The path she leads them on—meanders, more than Solas thinks it should. It doesn’t take long for her to signal back, motioning for extreme caution, and Sera grabs a fistful of Aevalle’s shirt, her face very pale in the torchlight. She reaches back wordlessly, and Solas takes her hand, then Cole holding his wrist.

The water level is climbing as the sand beneath them begins to slowly lead downward. Very quickly Solas finds he is chest-deep, and more than once Sera nearly slips off into another hole, only saved by her fierce grip on Aevalle’s shirt, and Solas’ white-knuckled hold on her wrist.

“Okay,” Sera says, spitting out water for the third time, “ _Seriously_. I just walked in a fucking straight line the first time. In and out. This is— _what the fuck_.”

Aevalle glances back, and meets Solas’ gaze. The green glint of her pupils in the near-dark are impossibly wide.

She signs with one hand—two fingers held before her eyes.

It is the sign for _see_ , and nothing else—her other hand on the spear, she can’t quite communicate efficiently. But he catches her meaning, and exhales, slowly.

_We are being watched._

Something slick and large brushes past Solas’ leg.

He opens his mouth to shout a warning right before Aevalle is pulled under—and Sera, still clinging tight to her shirt, follows after.

Solas is yanked under before he can react—his own grip tight on Sera’s, and all he can think is _she can’t swim_ , so he does not let go.

Her fingers are digging into the skin of his hand so hard he’s certain her short nails have drawn blood. He tries to shake Cole off, but the spirit’s cold hand clamps tighter around his wrist.

They slide along the bottom of the hallway, and Solas has to close his eyes—unable to see for the thick cloud of silt and sand that has been kicked up by the passage of whatever has Aevalle. He struggles to hold his breath—his skin all over _burns_ , from more than the pressure of the water and the friction of his whole body being dragged along the bottom, and he clamps down fiercely on instincts that have not surfaced since—

As abruptly as it began, the whirlwind pace of their passage through the water grinds to a halt. Momentum carries them, a little, but Solas’ feet find easy purchase at the bottom, which slows them enough for him to kick _up_. He and Cole swim, and Sera thrashes as she tries rather ineffectually to help, instinct telling her to struggle but doing them little good.

Solas’ head breaks the water first, and through his frantic gasps for air he strains his ears and listens—Cole emerges, to his left, and then Sera, choking on water and silt and all manner of whatever is in the water. She almost goes under again until Solas releases her long enough to run his arm under hers, for her to throw her arm over his shoulder, and he keeps them both afloat, treading water. All while he waits, scarcely breathing, for any sign or sound of Aevalle.

There is only the sound of them struggling for breath echoing back at them, Solas’ blood pounding in his ears, and the distant hum of a great reservoir of power, ebbing and flowing where it is locked away.

“Fuck,” Sera manages. “Fuck she— _shit_ —she cut her fuckin’ shirt. Got my fuckin’ knuckles— _Piss_.”

Solas releases Cole to reach up—the tips of his fingers touch the ceiling.

“Stings like a— _what the fuck_.” Sera chokes again, but he suspects it’s not on seawater. “Stupid. Bloody stupid. Can’t fuckin’ see, can’t fuckin’ walk—how we gonna rescue her like this?”

She is interrupted by a piercing shriek—it passes through the water like a wave, distorted as it travels to the surface where they float in utter darkness.

Immediately after—several flashes of light, each weaker than the last. If they still had their torches, Solas thinks, they wouldn’t have noticed it—a sickly green, blurring, as if the source is curling away from something. In the utter blackness, it lights up their faces for the breadth of a single heartbeat—Sera, pale and terrified, Cole, still-faced and wide eyed.

Then it dies out, and they are in blackness again.

Cole gasps in a low, sharp breath. “It has sharp teeth,” he hisses. “But—I am sharper, still. _Never again_ _will we submit_. Not if I can help it.”

Later, Solas might have time to examine the very primal _fear_ he feels at that—how quickly his heart lurches, at the thought of losing her to some drive to protect them.

In the moment, he only says, “Cole, take Sera.”

He expects Sera to protest—even without knowing what Cole is, she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with him.  But she allows herself to be passed over in the dark with only minor hesitation, and she clings to Cole without complaint.

But she does grab at Solas’ shoulder rather suddenly. “You’re seriously goin’ after her?”

“I am a stronger swimmer than I look,” he assures her.

“What’re you gonna do, paint its picture? Make it feel stupid with big words nobody even knows?”

He shrugs off her hand and, with a kick, starts swimming in the direction they saw the light.

He can hear Sera calling his name—and a number of other things—distorted as her cries are by the rush of water about him as he swims. He moves blindly, guided only by the memory of where the creature that took her was and the salt water around him—feeling something _pulling_ at the beat of his heart, at the tremble of his limbs as he focuses on moving, on creating as little resistance as possible as he passes through the water.

The second time it screams, Solas winces at the force of it—the water around him _vibrates_ , so heavy he loses the breath in his chest for a moment.

His skin _burns_ , his heart pounds—and there is a song, just on the edge of hearing, that Solas _cannot_ listen to, no matter what it offers—

When it lights up again, Solas is nearly upon it.

He is close enough to see the long, slick curve of its body, the endless circles it has made of itself in this underwater battle. A series of odd, circular marks alight the length of its spine, one by one, the first dying out as the next comes to life. False eyes, he thinks—some mechanism to draw prey’s eyes away from the mouth, to give it an opportunity to attack.

In this case, it allows him to guess the size of the thing—as thick around at the head as his legs together—and give him some idea of its _impossible_ length.

It also gives Solas a glance of Aevalle, still beneath the water.

He only catches a glimpse of her, her back pressed against the wall that blocks the end of the passage. Holding the spear before her with both hands, using it to fend off the snapping teeth of the creature. So close to her neck, to her face—expression determined, pupils reflecting the eerie light back a hundred times brighter.

There is a dark cloud around her right leg—blood in the water.

The monster tries to throw her, to use its jaws locked on the spear to shove her bodily against the wall. But she twists instead of resisting, and the creature slams itself against the surface at her back. It lights itself up again, brighter this time—the lights travelling _faster_ along its spine, as if in alarm.

The light catches on the surface of the wall, and is reflected back in a hundred tiny fragments of glass and once-polished stone. The long, curving shape of an animal’s jaw, the sharp lines of an eye.

Not a wall after all, then.

The last thing Solas sees as the light dies down: the creature jerking its head, and the spear snapping in its jaws.

He keeps swimming, closing in on the wall—and he thinks he is nearly hit by the creature as it struggles, from the rush of water around him so strong it nearly buffets him off course. But neither combatant sees him, a few hands’ breadths above them, even when his hand touches the mosaic.

He breathes a ragged command with an exhausted voice into the stale air—and then the mosaic lights up, piece by glittering piece, spreading outward from his palm, until the shape of the wolf burns into the darkness. The doors slip ajar—a hair’s breadth, at first, and then the water _rushes_ through the crack, and the doors are forced open as all the water in the hallway surges forward to fill the sudden opening.

He sees, briefly, the silhouette of the creature, its long and thin body, and that of Aevalle, driving the spear point into its eye, one hand on its broken shaft and the other arm jamming its mouth open, keeping it from closing about her face.

Then the water buffets him like a physical wall, and he is flung through the doorway.

He has enough sense to cover his head with his arms before he hits the ground on the other side—not really knowing what to expect, after all this time. But he hits something soft and spongy, shoulder first, and that would be enough to stop him without a tidal wave of murky seawater pushing him forward. He rolls, one arm shielding his head from unseen debris or stone, the other grasping and finding only a handful of thick, pale lichen, which tears up in his grasp.

He nearly topples off the edge of—whatever surface he has landed on—before he manages to grab hold of something, for the water to stop pushing him so much as it begins to rush past him. His legs dangle into the air, and he blinks as his eyes rapidly adjust to the light that pours in from— _everywhere_. The green tinge of phosphorescent light, not particularly bright on its own but with countless sources all around him, giving him more than enough for sharp elven eyes to see by.

He sees the body of the creature, first, twitching in its final death throes. Dark and long, it almost seems to deflate as water from the hallway becomes the depth of a stream or brook, no longer covering it. Lights flash all along its body over and over, in increasingly weaker and weaker patterns, until they dim.

It twitches twice more—then it is so still, Solas can hardly breathe. There is no sign of Aevalle.

“ _Lethallan_?” he calls, his voice hoarse. Tries to pull himself up, but the stone he clings to is surprisingly slick, and what lichen he can grab is not up to bearing his weight. “ _Lethallan!_ Where are you?”

The creature’s corpse rises—and Solas thinks for a horrifying moment that it is not quite dead. But then he sees her, shoving its long body off hers, and he can’t help his relieved breath as she scrambles to her feet, wide-eyed and dazed in the eerie green light.

Her left arm is a mess—her blood black and shining in this light. Her right leg moreso, and even as she stands she does not put any of her weight on it, leaning precariously on the bed of lichen they’ve found themselves on.

When she hears his sigh, her eyes snap to his—and her expression focuses into acute alarm as she sees him clinging to the cliff.

In the light of her violent battle with the monster, Solas almost _laughs_ at the rather undignified hobbling she resorts to in order to get to him.

“Slow down,” he tells her instead, although he is unable to get the mirth out of his voice entirely. “I am—I am _fine_ , _lethallan_. I am in no danger of falling. You will only hurt yourself.”

She splashes her way through the ankle-deep current until she is on her knees before him, and she is hoisting him up with bloodied hands. The strength of her grip surprises him—which it shouldn’t, considering the battle he just witnessed.

When he is kneeling on slick stone and soft lichen, before her, then she presses her hands to his shoulders, to his chest, checking him over frantically. He cannot help but laugh now, her eyes wide and her touches quick, firm, poking and prodding his ribs to see if they are broken. This only prompts her to press her hands on either side of his head to see if he has hit it, her fingertips curling over the long lines of his ears.

His breath stills. Her face is— _very_ close to his. He can feel her breath ghosting across the water on his skin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out that the fabric covering her neck is loose—not quite undone, but he can see the curve of her neck beneath it, shadowed by the dark cloth. And it occurs to him—she was under _far_ too long, to be breathing so easily. To be breathing at all—he knows he could reach up and pull it down, and have all his suspicions confirmed.

But he finds he cannot look from her eyes.

She smiles, when she finds him sound. Utterly oblivious to his thoughts, or where they have wandered, she only seems relieved that he is unhurt.

Her gaze flicks to his; and she stills, caught as he has been. Her smile fades, and she glances down at his lips.

When she moves, he thinks that she is leaning forward, and he stiffens—but then she slumps against his shoulder, breathing heavily, and he realises with a panic that she has lost a _lot_ of blood.

He gathers her up in his arms as he stands. She stirs, and he glances down at her to find her scowling, trying to get down on her own feet. Looking dizzy just from the effort.

“Trust me,” he says, and with a displeased huff she relents, resting her head against his shoulder.

It takes him a moment of looking at his surroundings to orient himself properly—he can feel the ocean at his back, below the cliff he nearly fell from. The familiar song rings in his ears, with the pounding of his heart—as if it knows he is desperate, that he cannot resist now with her limp in his arms once again.

Ahead of him, a sprawling empty doorway, water trickling out of it—a mountain of grime to climb up, slower going now that there is no water to lighten the sand and muck underfoot. She would bleed out before they could get anywhere near Cole and Sera, most likely, let alone the infirmary far above.

If memory serves him right— _there_. Stairs, carved into the stone of the cliff. Sturdy, still, after all this time, although there are things growing on them, making them slick, and it is slow going.

At the bottom of the stairs, the old stone harbour is still intact—though it too is covered by soft growth that emits a gentle, green light. The tide is high enough that he is ankle-deep once he steps onto it, and he flinches at the feeling of raw power surging through him at contact with the water. As he walks, he feels more than sees small creatures scurrying away—little bugs flit up into the air, their pale wings reflecting the ambient light before they light up themselves; a warning of his passing perhaps.

He breezes past old mosaics, overgrown or with holes burrowed into them, little glinting eyes peering out as he walks. Only glimpses of their contents remain—soldiers standing tall, _vallaslin_ proud on their faces. Shapeless, nameless things curling in the shadows.

Aevalle is tugging at his shirt, and he looks down at her. _Slow down,_ she signs—she is trying to see whatever is on the walls.

 “You are bleeding to death,” he tells her, gently. “There will be time to look around later.”

She relents—but her hand curls in his shirt and stays there, even as she tries to crane her head around him at everything they pass.

Dimly, he hears Sera calling, somewhere above them. He walks faster, and does not answer her.

There is only one ship still in the dock, and Solas passes it without giving it much notice— but Aevalle reaches out and runs her hand along its surface, smearing her blood over the hull. Something within lights up at her touch—ancient runes running from her fingertips outward, gleaming a brilliant, vibrant green.

He keeps walking until he has reached the end of the ship—ignoring the sound of it coming to life, of something ancient rising from slumber just at his side. Ignores how the presence within the ship reaches, hesitantly, for the first sentient thing to touch it in millennia.

Behind him, he hears Sera shout again—then the sound of footsteps approaching.

He kneels by a stretch of empty dock, and lays her down in the water. Here there is only the current flowing _in_ from the ocean, and none of what he had released from behind him. Strong enough, he hopes, his hands shaking, his hands pressing Aevalle’s shoulders down as she tries to rise.

She is frowning, reaching for him—trying to find out what’s wrong.

He closes his eyes, and exhales, long and slow, until his lungs are completely empty, and the world around him seems utterly silent. Only the soft, gentle lapping of water against the ship’s hull—only the reserved, curious enquiry of the spirit trapped inside, pressing at the edges of his consciousness. He ignores it, and it turns its attentions on Aevalle instead.

When he breathes in, he feels as if he is filling his lungs with water instead.

It _surges_ through him, even quicker than the last time—and this is _twice_ now he has broken this barrier inside him for her, knelt in the push and pull of the ocean and welcomed it inside himself.

The first, for someone utterly a stranger, incapable of knowing. But this time...

She watches with wide eyes as his hands pass over her leg, and shining water washes over her in his wake. Slipping over her injuries and healing them, as gently as the ocean rocked the small _aravel_ in the dream she still does not know they shared.

He carries this path all the way up her body, over her arms and then up to her face. There is a scratch there, hardly worth worrying about—but he touches his fingertip to the curve of her jaw, and the water seals it closed.

Her skin is soft, and he finds it difficult to pull away. To think of why he _should_ —because he is so full it is radiating from him now, pulsing with each shift and sway of the water gathered around him. The tide is at its highest point for the evening, and as she sits up he can _feel_ every drop of water running off her skin, slipping back into the ocean.

He drops his hand, then—knowing what he looks like, pupils blown unnaturally wide, watching her with eyes that are _too_ focused, _too_ intense. But she gazes at him unafraid, until she lifts her hand to her mouth, then extends it.

_Thank you_ , she signs. Then, with a wry smile, _And for the first time, as well._

A heartbeat, twenty, passes, and they only look into one another’s eyes.

Then she glances down at his lips, and whatever thought he has of control snaps. He reaches for her in the same moment that she leans in.

“Oi!” Sera calls, and the sound of it is so sudden, so _grounding_ , that Solas remembers they are not alone. Everything surges away from him, all at once draining into the water curling around them. He gasps like he’s just come up for air—nearly falls forward, only kept from landing on his face by Aevalle.

“Alright, very funny,” Sera says. “Coulda’ said _Sera we’re busy making out go away_ and _not_ scared me half t’ death. Jus’ sayin. Then I wouldn’t have to see— _that_ , an’ we’d all be happier.”

Solas looks up, blinking through the fog of his mind. Sera is standing on the ship, leaning over the rail. Cole is at her side, his hat still inexplicably on his head, little drops of water falling from its brim to the deck.

“Bright and burning, bolder when you were brimming—she wanted you to. You should have—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sera interrupts, “was I right, or was I right? Look at this place! And even better: free boat! Dunno how it got here, though, seeing as we’re completely surrounded by fucking rock.”

“Boats need sails or steam,” Cole says, softly. “This has none. But it has— _hello_!”

Cole kneels down and presses his hand to the surface of the craft. Sera looks down at him, mortified.

“Please tell me the boat’s not haunted,” she says.

“Don’t worry, she’s very nice when you get to know her,” Cole tells the ship. “Though, not to _you_ , perhaps.”

“Nope,” Sera says. “Just— _no_. Okay, weird sea monster was enough, but haunted ship? _Hell. No._ ”

Aevalle’s shoulders shake with laughter—pulling Solas’ attention back down to her. She is holding his shoulders, even though he feels steadier, now.

She’s looking up at him—still smiling, he thinks, in spite of it all.

“That was—very foolish of you,” he says, finally. “You could have been killed.”

She looks down, wincing—but he reaches for her, and with a gentle touch to her chin, pulls her gaze back up.

“Thank you,” he says.

She smiles.

“You two coming or what?” Sera calls—further away this time, Solas notes. No longer standing on the ship, and halfway up the stairs already. Cole is climbing down from the ship, still chatting away, even as the lights on its side begin to dim.

Aevalle fixes her scarf while Solas averts his eyes, and then he helps her stand. She is still a bit dizzy so she leans on him as they walk along the dock. His hand accidentally brushes the place where she cut her shirt, and against her bare back under it, but she only leans into him more.

_I won’t tell anyone_ _,_ she signs before they begin the climb back up. Sera is already at the door, having scrambled up a veritable mountain of silt to get there. Shouting at them to hurry up.

_I know_ , he tells her.

She stalls then—and he wonders if there is come confession she wants to make, staring up at him. Biting her bottom lip, uncertainly.

“Come on!” Sera calls.

Aevalle ducks her head—but as she turns to follow Sera, Solas takes her hand.

She blinks at it, then at him, owl-eyed.

“I do not want to lose you in the dark again,” he says, as if it is so simple.

She laughs and shakes her head at him—but she does not let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friend: Are there mermaids in your fic yet?  
> Me: Jesus not yet okay  
> Me: There's an underwater fight with a giant eel in this chapter  
> Me: We are like... [x] away from mermaids  
> Me: Solas does more weird ocean shit  
> Friend: At least they go in the water ;)  
> Me: Shut up :|
> 
> Okay look I promised you mermaids it's happening I swear


	8. Too Wild to be Held Down

That night, after they crawl their way out of the filthy depths of Seahold and collapse into their beds, Solas dreams of the crash of waves, the pull of something deep below the surface, and of _her._

He wakes so many times that night he loses count—sees her in so many different dreams, each more vivid than the last, that he is not certain until he sees a sliver of sunlight through his window that any given one of them is real or not. That lying in his bed, linens tangled around him, is not the dream after all.

He sits on the side of his bed, feet pressing into the cold stone floor, trying to remind himself—but he closes his eyes and sees her, standing in the crash of waves, or running down an ancient hall, or with her bare back exposed to him, either a stray breeze or a gentle current pulling at her hair as she turns and looks at him, over her shoulder—

He curses. Presses shaking hands to his face. The air is like ice to his skin, to the sweat upon his brow.

He is always uneasy, the week the moon waxes full—the tide so high, that ever-present pull is harder to ignore, a constant hum under his skin.

But now that he has knelt in the waves and welcomed it all back in, _twice_ , he finds himself rubbed nearly raw by it. Even standing amongst the others, clearing debris from the orphanage yard, he has to pause and close his eyes. Utterly overwhelmed by the race of his heart in his chest, roaring of blood in his ears that sounds all too much like waves. He finds the day unbearably hot, and he snaps out of his thoughts to find himself pulling at the collar of his shirt with alarming frequency. As if it is choking him.

Underneath it all—the methodical pull of power from the ocean and into himself. Filling reservoirs that have been empty too long—that are too _obvious_ when full, to those who know where to look. And he can do nothing about it until the moon has filled to the brim, then begun to wane.

He is irritable, he knows—but he cannot help snapping and rising to every little fragment of an argument someone tries to start with him. He has an extended argument with Varric in the morning sitting about a quip that is meant to offend Cassandra.

Halfway through the day, however, he catches Aevalle watching him.

No one is paying him much attention—probably outright ignoring him, as he’s been acting utterly intolerable all day. Josephine has literally distracted Vivienne from her argument with him by physically placing herself between them—and considering the argument is about the rights of factory workers and mages, Solas is grateful for the intrusion.

He walks away to give himself space to calm down before he says something utterly revealing. He finds a stone wall to lean against, cast in shadow, and presses his forehead to the cool surface. Closes his eyes and breathes in the musty smell of moss between the stones, feel the grit beneath his palm. Something steady against his skin, that does not ebb and flow and remind him of everything he’s done.

He turns so his back is to the wall, so he can slide down and rest for awhile—in the soft, cool grass, until the sun shifts too much and he loses the shade the old wall offers. Tilts his head back as he sits.

He’s not sure how long he sits there for—he dozes a little, the heat and lack of any real sleep too much for him, and when he wakes he happens to glance over and see her. Standing over the water bucket, the ladle in her hand, turned as if she is about to drink from it—and slowly draining back into the bucket.

There is enough distance between them that he is not certain, but he thinks she’s staring at his throat.

And again, later, when he is speaking with Sera— _arguing_ , and as she rolls her eyes she tosses her gaze to his left and says, “Aevalle, tell him he’s being a real friggin’ piss-face. Yeah?”

Even halfway through a retort, he glances over to see her response—only to see that Aevalle is staring at his lips as he speaks with such an open _intensity_ that he stops, mid-sentence. Unable to even think of what he is in the middle of saying.

She must have dumped water over her head—the heat of the day is _oppressive_ , and half their drinking water has wound up poured over sweat-soaked brows, so she is hardly the first. She seems to have been halfway through raking her wet hair back over her face, but then stopped, fingers frozen where they curl against her scalp.

Solas is dimly aware the conversation has been brought to an abrupt halt. That he should say something, look away. But there is a drop of water rolling down her face—he watches it slip over her cheekbone, down to her jaw.

Sera says her name again, and Aevalle jerks in place. _It’s way too hot,_ she signs, an embarrassed smile on her lips. _Who’s up for a swim?_

There is a protest on Solas’ lips—and from Sera’s expression, hers as well. But the others readily agree to delaying the labour of the day, sweat-soaked and exhausted as they all are. The loudest among them the children; in one moment sitting cross-legged around an exasperated teacher assigned by Vivienne, the next launching themselves towards the road.

Solas hangs back as they walk, watching Aevalle walk ahead—Cassandra on her right, Sera on her left, the former struggling to repeat the signs Aevalle displays for her, and the latter in stitches over her attempts.

Aevalle is trying to chastise Sera—keeps signing her name _admonishingly_ , although she cannot seem to stop herself from smiling as she does it. She begins by flicking her cheek with her thumb and forefinger, as if finishing the sign for _bee_ , followed by the sign for _laugh_ ; her hand to the side of her mouth, fingers curled, thumb extended, index finger waggling.

“This is much more difficult than you make it look,” Cassandra says, trying to fumble her way through _thank you very much_. She keeps using the sign for _give_ instead of the sign for _thank you_.

Solas hangs back from the water, once they arrive at the beach—in the heat of the day, the children are eager to play in the waves, and nearly all of them are attempting to topple Iron Bull into the water at the same time. He laughs as the youngest of them dangle from his arms, their legs kicking in the air. Their combined efforts having little effect—his booming laughter drowns out theirs.

Vivienne reappears with Varric in tow and a short bathing dress that Solas assumes is the height of fashion. She wades in the water and picks the younger children up when they fall, and though she chides Bull for encouraging the children’s reckless behaviour, it is with too much fondness to have any effect. She chats amiably with Cassandra, who has stripped down to her white undershirt and rolled up the legs of her pants.

Blackwall sits on the shore with Solas and one of the Vashoth children—they both have a small knife to a piece of driftwood, and the Warden is showing the girl how to carve a small sailing boat, how to keep her strokes even and clean.

Varric joins them, gesturing casually a little further down the beach, where Aevalle is leading Sera into the waves with both hands, step by gradual step.

“Buttercup looks like she’s having _fun_ ,” Varric says as he sits on the sand.

Solas cannot hear Sera’s complaining, not over the roar of Bull’s laughter as he allows the children to finally topple him into the ocean. It is hardly difficult to imagine what she is saying, but he finds his attention drawn to Aevalle instead, walking with her back into the ocean, not a single glance behind her to make sure the footing is sound, that nothing sharp or jagged is in her path.

“How did Aevalle figure out she can’t swim, anyway?” Blackwall asks, glancing up from his work.

Varric waves dismissively. “Probably just told her, Hero. Not everything’s some big mystery, you know.”

“She came back to the tavern last night soaking wet.” The Warden shakes his head, however, and allows his attention to be redirected by the girl at his side.

Solas watches Aevalle lead Sera in up to their waists. Then she directs Sera to lie on her back, to allow the water to carry her weight—and then she begins to walk, hands still on Sera’s, pulling the other elf out to sea.

“Scared she’ll drift away again?” Varric teases, jolting Solas out of his thoughts.

“Hardly,” he answers, a little too quickly.

“Yes,” comes the soft correction from the bluff at their backs. Solas glances up, and Cole is sitting on the grass, his feet dangling over the side.

The sun begins to dip in the horizon, and as Sera picks up a functional, if perhaps a little _splashy_ , front crawl, she and Aevalle return to shore. Aevalle finds a relatively straight stick that’s only as long as her arm, and borrows Blackwall’s knife to sharpen one end into a point. And then she is back into the water again, diving in with ease when she is only waist deep.

It seems such a painfully long time before she surfaces again; far out to sea, bobbing in the gentle waves. Solas has to block the low-hanging sun with his hand to make her out—just treading water, her head down, scanning the ocean below her and waiting.

Blackwall has wandered off, and he attempts to teach a determinedly disinterested Sera how to spot places where a clam has buried itself beneath the sand—digs up an impressive amount of littlenecks, and two large horseshoe clams, before he and Sera return, his jacket overflowing with his efforts.

“I have had Leliana looking into clan Lavellan,” Cassandra is saying to Vivienne. Up the beach a little—perhaps far enough away that they think they cannot be overheard. Perhaps forgetting that elven ears catch the sound a little better, when the moon is brimming full.

“An admirable effort, my dear, but I doubt even our spymaster will find anything.” Vivienne’s arms are crossed behind her back—she stands looking out to water, where Aevalle has just disappeared below the surface without so much as a splash. “It pains me to say it, but I doubt there is a single record left of her clan anywhere.”

Cassandra scoffs. “This is an age of innovation, Vivienne. You mean to tell me that I can buy a hundred shirts that are identical in every way, made in a factory in Denerim over the course of a single morning, and they will each and every one be accounted for in their books—but that an entire clan of elves can simply disappear unnoticed? I refuse to accept it.”

Vivienne raises a brow. She is still watching the waves, although her normally focused gaze seems distant. “I doubt they simply disappeared, Cassandra.”

“Then someone will know something.” Cassandra straightens—the light of the rapidly sinking sun making the lines in her face sharper. “What good is this Inquisition if it cannot even find out what happened to a single Dalish clan?”

Aevalle surfaces again, something heavy and dark in tow, and begins swimming back to shore. The closer she gets, the more obvious her self-satisfied expression—and by the time she can stand, dragging a tuna as long as she is tall, she is grinning from ear to ear.

She allows them all a moment to examine her kill—while Sera pokes at the stick that is still impaled in the fish’s head with eyes wide like saucers—still radiating a self-assuredness Solas has only seen from her once before.

_I’ll protect you_ , he remembers, and allows himself a private smile.

“What’s a big fish got such tiny little fins for?” Sera asks. “Looks silly, don’t it?”

Bull whistles as he leans down to inspect it. “These are _fast_ , boss,” he says, planting his hands on his knees to get a better look. “Thought they didn’t come this close to shore during the day?”

_A whole school of them swam right by_ , Aevalle is signing. _Something’s chasing them, I think. Maybe a shark?_

“You stayed in the water where there might be sharks with a bleeding carcass?” Varric reaches up and smacks her arm. “Drifter, I can’t _pay_ sharks not to eat you.”

She grins down at him, her hands about to move with a clever retort, and one of the children shouts, “Look! Halla!”

They all turn—none as fast as Aevalle.

Solas sees them, far in the distance—farther still even than Aevalle swam out. They leap out of the water as they swim, the sun catching their white, white flesh like so many pearls scattered across the sea. He cannot make out their sleek forms, the delicate horns that sprout from their skull and follow the lines of their body backwards, or even their numbers they are moving so fast.

His gaze follows the pod as they move, at a pace too leisurely to be anything but _taunting_ their quarry, only to find his attention caught by Aevalle, standing knee-deep in the ocean.

He hadn’t even seen or heard her move—no one seems to notice her or find that she is there particularly odd. She stands, stock still—as if she ran to that spot, and remembered some reason why she should stay behind. Back impossibly straight, the lines of her shoulders tight and strained.

He can hear the calls of the halla, carried by the waves—bright and high, too far away to make out properly.

“ _Come hunt with us_ ,” Cole whispers, the pattern of his speech almost mimicking a Dalish brogue Solas has never heard. Then, softer, as a wave laps gently at her legs, “It _pulls_. It _pulls_ and I cannot follow.”

The halla carry on, their cries die out, and there is only the sound of the waves, the sun slipping lower below the horizon.

“Well,” Sera says, breaking the silence. “We can all write about this later— _Dear Diary: saw white dolphins today. It was rubbish_.” She giggles, loud and brash, and does not wait for anyone to laugh along. “So, who’s gonna cook this thing?”

One by one, the others turn away from the ocean—helping to search for driftwood to build a fire. Aevalle lingers, water rushing about her legs, staring off into the horizon where the halla disappeared. As if she might change her mind and follow, still.

And he has a selfish thought, one that startles him almost as much as if Cole had spoken it aloud— _that he does not want her to._

Solas approaches her from behind—but does not enter the water. He stands just beyond the ocean’s reach, the lapping of the waves just shy of his bare toes.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” he calls, softly.

She turns—and Solas’ heart aches at how _lost_ she looks. Wide eyes and clenched fists. And again he finds himself with no words of comfort to offer, but wishing he had them all the same.

He holds out his hand.

She looks down at it—and for what seems like _ages_ , there is only the rush of the ocean between them. The wind in her hair, the laughter of their friends a short ways up the beach, all drowned out by the push and pull. Her standing in the waves, he on the shore.

Then, as if it is a simple thing, she smiles, and begins to wade back to him. She slips her hand into his, and he leads her away from the ocean. Fingers twining, walking step in step beside each other. If she clings a little too tightly to him, he does not say—and if he is all too aware of the smell of her, salt, seafoam and all things from the deep, of the heat of her skin against his—

Perhaps she is not the only one taking comfort in this moment, in the joining of hands.

 

That night, when Solas finally slips into sleep, she is waiting for him.

Her dream curls around his before he can form any of his own—unpracticed, unskilled, it surprises him some in its strength. A memory, perhaps, he thinks, watching with curiosity as he is enveloped by the world of her sleep. Tall cedars, reaching ever skyward, trunks so wide the breadth of his arms cannot describe them. Dogwood, fir—a soft blanket of shed needles under his bare toes.

He has sketched all of these and more—and he examines them curiously, finding them remembered in exacting detail. The Free Marches, he notes. To the east, he thinks, noting the thick net of chest-height salal that bars his passage. As far east as Wycome, perhaps.

It is evening, he notes, though the moon is so full that it casts a brilliant light over the foliage of his surroundings as they form. There are sounds, now—more than just the wildlife. The sounds of laughter, instruments… he picks out a fiddle, sounding old and worn by salt air but played with a skill he remembers from the waking world. With it a wooden flute, and some simple drum—and the stomp of many feet, the crackle and snap of flames.

He turns toward the sound, and a whole Dalish camp springs to life before him.

There are children running underfoot, and the dancers around the fire are mostly young hunters he guesses—almost everyone else sits around on toppled logs, catching their breath, singing along or clapping their hands to the beat.

He cannot make out the performers from where he stands—a whole whirling, vibrant crowd between himself and them. But he is in no hurry—the dream is stable. Though he anchors it some with a thought, so it will not flit away.

He walks around the crowd—there are a surprising number of wisps there, playing the part of the people in her memories. Some proper spirits as well, he notices—a spirit of Duty plays an old woman who leans on her staff, watching the clan with a pleasant, if wry smile. The Keeper, he assumes, and stays well away.

There is a bluff separating the clan from the ocean, the trees thinning out into sand and stone. He sees a number of aravels moored there; sails down, bobbing to and fro with the push and pull of the water. Further out the clan’s halla, gleaming white dots scattered across the black of the ocean at night. A sheltered cove—where the waves will not grow too rough should the wind pick up in the night. Isolated enough that no humans will stumble upon them while they dance.

He knows there are few such places left in the world. That in reality, this cove is marked on a map somewhere—that at the rate of _progress_ , it is only a matter of time until this place in her memory is not so difficult to reach. Perhaps that is already the case.

The song ends, and he turns back to the celebration. Continues to skirt the edge of the crowd as the dancers stop, laughing, catching their breaths. He notes more than a few slip away, slipping past him and down to the ocean—hears too-loud laughter at his back, followed by a playful _hushing_.

Another song begins again as Solas walks, trying to catch a better view of the performers. The dancers whirl again—picking up the quick rhythm with the ease of familiarity, with the gait of lives spent half on the ocean and half off.

Then the fiddler stops playing, and begins to sing.

“ _You’ve kissed me sweetly all the night and promised your heart to me; a careful worded whisper to my father, mother dear.”_

Solas feels his heart leap in his chest.

As they dance, the gathered wisps and spirits whirl closer to the fiddler, as if pulled by some current.

“ _And so you kneel before me and you promise to be true, and ask that I will bind myself to none but you.”_

There is… _something_ in that voice, for half a moment. Gone as soon as he hears it. Something very ancient. Something he hasn’t heard in…

But it can’t be, he thinks. Straining to hear it again. Slipping through the crowd of dancers, without thinking for a moment of what he is doing.

_“To wind nor wave nor sailing fleet, nor sweet bright summer sky, that I’ll only bear one love for you and your word I’ll not deny.”_

The dancers do not lose their form as he moves through them, spirits and wisps alike more eager perhaps to enjoy the melody than to break the illusion. He recognises elements of the dance, borrowed from human ballrooms and Vashoth camps outside human settlements. Some of them are ancient, he notes, though whether that is his influence on this dream or there are lifts and turns long remembered, preserved in some strange way through time, he cannot say.

He listens to the song, _straining_ to hear it again—perhaps, he thinks, it was only his imagination. That there is no call hidden in the singer’s voice.

And if there was—what would he do? Everyone here is long dead, by all accounts.

The dancers in front of him lunge to the side, suddenly, giving Solas an uninterrupted view of the singer—and her of him.

Aevalle, standing with her fiddle in one hand and bow in the other—neck uncovered, unmarred, slender and strong, dressed in a mixture of soft seal skin and factory-made clothing, a slender day dress repaired too many times—cut off unevenly at the knees, sleeves hacked off at the elbow. Exposing the sharp line of her collarbone.

She sees him, and her whole face lights up.

For his part, he can barely offer an astonished smile.

“ _To you I say, I am too wild to be held down by naught but sail or wave! I will not rest when there’s a wind calling my name! And though you hold me tight and sing the safety of your home—if you want to keep me close my love a sailing we must go!”_

Then she brings the fiddle up to her neck and plays, fingers and bow flying over the strings—and a smile that makes his heart flutter, biting her bottom lip as she looks him up and down.

For his part, Solas feels too many things all at once—the heat rising to his cheeks and up all along his ears, the hammering of his heart, and a crushing _loss_ he cannot begin to describe.

He wants nothing more than to stay and listen to her forever—knows that he _cannot_ , that he has so rudely intruded where he does not belong.

He ducks his head and leaves the circle of dancers, as quickly as he can.

He does not stop walking until he stands amongst the trees, the sounds of the celebration far enough behind him that they are muted.

Among the looming cedar, he stands with bowed shoulders. Looks down at the forest floor—thousands upon thousands of shed needles, bits of moss and ferns growing in between towering trees. He stares down and tries to forget what he heard, what sliver of hope he had—

_She invited you here_ , a stray thought reminds him. _She was looking for you_.

_But she does not know what she is doing_. He closes his eyes and inhales—wishing for once for a true forest, so he might bury his toes in the ground and remind himself of all he has made. All he has wrought.

“Solas?”

His name called from behind him—in a voice he has _never heard_. Should not be hearing now—and he can scarcely help a gasp that rings half grief and half shock at the sound of it.

She is approaching behind him, her footsteps soft on the forest floor. “Are you alright?” she asks, and— _dimly_ , he is aware that her voice sounds strange. Dull, somehow—the memory of how it sounded to her own ears, perhaps.

If this happened at the beginning of their acquaintance, he would have been fascinated. But now, he feels nothing but a trespasser.

“I am well,” he answers. Lies. Turns to greet her with a smile—better to let her believe this a dream, him a figment in it when she wakes. Let her grieve in private, upon waking.

His smile comes easier in response to the one she gives him—easy, unreserved. Eyes catching the moonlight in brilliant green circles.

“I thought my Keeper had got to you,” she tells him, coming and standing very close in front of him.

Behind her, an unfamiliar voice calls from far, far away. “ _Da’len_!”

Aevalle glances over her shoulder—then back at him again with a playful grimace.

“Speaking of,” she says, with a roll of her eyes that is all at once familiar, and too light hearted to be anything but strange to him.

“ _Da’len_!” comes the call again. From— _Duty_ , he remembers, not her Keeper. “Aevalle! Where has that girl run off to now…? Aevalle!”

She reaches out and takes his hand.

He does not have the presence of might to stay still when she pulls—she leads and he follows, stumbling like a fool, through the undergrowth. She laughs at him, bright as a bell, and his heart leaps and _twists_ at the sound of it.

He should wake her. He should wake her and apologize and explain—

But her hand is warm, and in waking the moon is so nearly full—and the dream lets him _feel_ , where he could not before; the callouses on her hands, the hum of her soul burning free where it would normally be contained by her skin. Curling up against his—electricity running up his spine at every pulse of her heart.

He thinks of the dream, curled up in the aravel, surrounded by ocean and animal skins, a wooden frame and oiled canvas all that separates them from the worlds above and below, enveloped by _her_ , and—

And he wants nothing more, in this moment.

They stumble onto the beach, round stones digging into Solas’ feet as he slips on uncertain footing. She laughs again, pulling him towards the ocean.

His heels dig into the stones and sand. Her hand slips from his—he feels a pang at the loss of connection there.

But it’s for the best. Certainly.

She turns and watches him a moment, a brow raised and a curious smirk. She says nothing, but Solas has spent nearly a month reading her intentions without words, and he knows now the light in her eyes, the clever words behind them.

While he is still thinking of what to say to dissuade her from what he _knows_ she wants, she reaches down and pulls her dress over her head.

Then, while he has stopped thinking of anything at all, she tosses it at his head. Then, she uses his distraction to grab his hands and pull him, stumbling, towards the water.

He is knee deep before she lets him go, the dress still blocking his vision. He pulls it off while she laughs—and she has turned from him, wading into the calm waters. Wearing only leg wrappings, underthings, all made of sealskin. Dalish make, through and through—utterly unlike in origin the dress she has so casually thrown at his head.

The moon is large and bright in the sky. She is lit up clearer than day before him—a thousand stars glittering in the sky before her, and not a one so bright as the shine of the moon in her hair, along the sharp lines of her shoulders, the gentle curve of her waist.

She begins to wade deeper, expecting him to follow.

He almost reaches for her. Has to stop himself—ball his hands into fists at his sides.

And— _because_ it is a dream, because here there can be more than signals and words between them, she feels his trepidation as he does. She stops as his hands curl. Turns and looks at him, over her shoulder. The playfulness of her expression slipping a little. Sensing his unease, but not understanding why.

“Scared, Solas?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers. His throat feels tight.

And she smiles readily enough at that—turns fully to him, and begins to wade back. “It’s just a little water, Solas,” she tells him.

“Ah,” he manages to say. “That is not precisely…”

A flare of amusement—and something richer, he thinks, looking at her eyes. Surprise, flattery. Guilt, he thinks, creeping up somewhere deep that she is not herself aware of, in this moment.

“Not precisely…?” she parrots once he trails off. Wading back to him. “Then what _are_ you afraid of?”

There are, perhaps, succinct ways to phrase his answer. But he himself has only a laundry list to offer, so he stands in silence as he tries, and _fails_ , to think of all the reasons she should not be standing so close, wearing so little.

He can only think of waking up, entwined with her—of bending to kiss her neck as he helps her dress.

_But that’s not how it happened_.

There is only one thing he can offer her. “You change… everything,” he tells her—the truth, and in the long run the only one that matters. This long month spent in her company has taught him to fear more than he could ever imagine—and he has lived too long to imagine that good things can simply _stay_ , when the ocean pulls at the shore, one grain of sand at a time.

She is standing so close now, he can make out every detail of her uninhibited delight. The slight widening of her eyes, how her spine straightens _just so_. How her lips part, her chest swells with breath.

“Sweet talker,” she says—her smile slipping into something coy.

_Beautiful_ , he thinks. And he looks away—only to feel a soft touch on his cheek, directing his attention back.

And then, softer still, lips pressed to his.

By now he is used to communication between them as things other than words and signs, but as a series of touches—a tap at his arm to grab his attention, the tilt of her head to imply a question. So he understands instantly the gentleness of this. Not— _shyness_. Not hesitation or second-guessing, but a question.

_Do you want this_?

When she pulls away, he knows his answer.

And she would, too—with the shake of his head, the curve of his lips as he can no longer hide his foolish, helpless smile. Would if she hadn’t turned away, with sorrow and shame colouring her expression—

So he tells her. With a hand on her arm, on her waist, and his lips upon hers.

She is so _warm_ —impossibly so, as his lips press against hers, as his hands slide lower still, pressing her flush against him. The feel of her breath against his skin is almost a laugh, nearly a sigh of relief, hardly a breath at all but a rush of _joy_.

She presses back—and he takes her bottom lip between his, to suck with just the lightest pressure, and her fingers curl in his shirt, dig into his back. She bends backwards as his leg slips between hers, as he poses another question with his tongue, brushing along her bottom lip, and she answers him with a parting of her lips.

They break for air, unbending, gasping, and he manages to pull away—but her smile is so warm and delighted, that he cannot help but go to her again. Kiss her again—revel in the softness of her lips, of the brush of her spirit against his.

But—but _she does not know_ , he remembers, and pulls away.

She tries to chase him—manages to bite at his lower lip a little before he can step back, and _that_ is something he would like to feel again. Almost enough to reel him in once more. Keep her here with him until the break of dawn. Or away from the ocean—he considers twisting the dream with a thought and finding out exactly how graceful she is with her hands on his head, her back pressed into a bed covered in the skins of beasts that no longer breathe, that no living soul remembers, her legs—

“Wait,” he begs her, his breath ragged. As much to himself as to her. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

She opens her mouth to argue—and then snaps it shut immediately, eyes widening. Her hand goes to her throat, bare of any coverings.

_This isn’t real_ , she signs, when she can bring herself to pull her hand from her neck.

“That’s a matter of debate,” he tells her, and she stares up at him with such incredulity that he thinks he might have gotten away with pretending he is not really here, that he is some kind spirit who means to offer her a reprieve. If he had simply played along.

He cannot help a playful smile of his own—lost in the moment, in the simple pleasure of a sleight of hand revealed to an audience in awe. “Probably best discussed after you _wake up_.”

 

He waits for her on the battlements in the morning—staring out at the ships in the harbour. In the direction of them, really. Shoulders straight, hands crossed behind his back. Looking but not seeing, his thoughts an utter mess.

There is a full moon tonight, and he is not paying attention to the height of the tide—to the hum in the air around him, to the feeling of something pulling at him, away from land and towards the water. Not thinking, even for a moment, of how much magic is now humming in his bones, how dangerous it is for him if he is not _careful_ , if he does not watch his every move.

Instead he is thinking of her lips on his, and how to apologize, _profusely_.

He hears her approach, the scuff of rough leather on the hard stone. Hears her steps pause—hesitate, at his back.

When he turns, she is hesitating still—a respectful distance away, a frown on her features. Trying to read his, he knows—and he _knows_ now that he could lie now, act as if nothing happened, and there is a chance she might believe him. And things will return to normal—though he knows, by the way her eyes flick to his lips as she tries to read his features, that she will never stop _wondering_.

And in truth—neither would he.

“Sleep well?” he asks her. The words curling into a playful smile on his lips.

Her smile is— _ah_ , but it lightens his heart. She rakes a hand through her hair, ducking her head as though she is sheepish. But her whole face _lights up_ , for just a moment, with a simple happiness that is utterly contagious.

She looks at him again, trying to hide the giddiness she must be feeling—and utterly failing—and any thought he had of ending this before it starts is blown away by the wind in her red, red hair.

He opens his mouth, and she lifts her hands to sign, but they are both interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs nearby, voices raised in an argument.

“… have provided all the documentation required under the Starkhaven Accord,” an unfamiliar voice is saying.

At the sound of it, Aevalle freezes in place.

There are a number of voices trying to argue at once, although Josephine’s rings the loudest. “I would have my people look over these, to ensure everything is in _order,_ ” she is saying—and there is more open _spite_ in her words than Solas could ever imagine her capable of.

A very real panic rises in him—and it does not abate when the arguing parties reach the top of the stairs. Commander Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine—flanked by a handful of their soldiers—and accompanying them, a handful of Tevinter men. A man dressed with all the finery that implies _magister_ , two at his back wearing his colours, with rifles on their backs and bored expressions on their faces.

The magister sees Aevalle, standing before Solas—and she is so utterly _still_. As if he is a predator, and if she does not move he will not see her.

“Ah,” he says, all pretense of warmth, rushing forward with open arms, as if to greet Aevalle. “There she is.”

Solas steps between them—back straight, using his not inconsiderable height to its full advantage. He looks the magister in the eye as the man comes to a stop before him.

“Who are you?” Solas asks, and he cannot help the sharpness of his tone.

The magister looks Solas up and down—a flash of discomfort, there, at being so openly defied by one so below his station. It quickly turns to mild annoyance, however, and he looks to Cassandra in askance. As if answering Solas is too difficult a task.

Cassandra is holding papers in her hand. Looking over Solas’ shoulder at Aevalle, instead of them, an apology written all over her face.

Josephine snatches the papers from Cassandra, scowling furiously as she goes through them. “Magister Alexius,” she says, and her voice holds a thin veneer of calm now. “You _claim_ Aevalle is your legally obtained slave. Perhaps you could explain how a Dalish hunter finds herself among your household, as she has told us nothing of this.”

“As you can see on the fifth page,” the magister says, his tone jovial while he avoids Solas’ pointed gaze, “she is from an Antivan clan that succumbed to disease. Rather than factory work, she sold herself to a merchant there, to guard his caravans. I purchased her as a bodyguard for my son.”

“A long way to come for a simple bodyguard,” Leliana interjects—coolly, although that means little where the spymaster is concerned. “Do you collect all your runaway slaves personally?”

“My son is quite fond of her, you understand. It’s very difficult to get him to agree to such restrictions on his freedom—he has been despondent without her, and refuses any other I offer him. Are you finding a problem with the paperwork, Miss Montiliyet?”

She is still reading the first page thoroughly. With a severe scowl. “I will require a few hours to go over these,” she says—with a tone that suggests she would prefer several days. “I _believe_ I am still allowed that under the Starkhaven Accord.”

Alexius smiles—all politeness, Solas thinks, but still it reminds him of a snake. “Then I request she be held under lock and key until she is released into my custody.”

Cassandra does not immediately refuse, as Solas expected—she is still looking at Aevalle, not saying a word.

“This is absurd,” Solas snaps—and every gaze locks onto him. Wide with alarm or with open disdain. “Cassandra, you cannot allow this.”

“And who is _this_ , to be so flippant of the chain of command here?” Alexius takes a step closer, trying to look down on Solas with a sneer. Solas only stands taller in response—Alexius would be a little shorter than he, without shoes on. “To be so blatant in the abuse of international treaties? The Starkhaven Accord allows for the return of lost or stolen property to Tevinter, no matter which border it crosses, as long as the owner is able to provide the proper paperwork.”

“You cannot _own_ a person!”

“Tevinter law disagrees with you!”

A hand on his shoulder, and Solas’ reply is cut short.

When he turns, Aevalle meets his gaze. She tries to smile—but he can see the resignation pulling down her shoulders, and it does not quite reach her eyes besides.

She does not sign, but the sorrow in her eyes speaks for itself.

He starts to shake his head _no_ , to protest—but she grips his shoulder harder, then, and releases it. Drops her hands demurely by her side, and steps around Solas.

“See?” Alexius says. As if he is speaking to a particularly dull child. “She wants to come home, doesn’t she?”

“Cassandra.” She is not looking at him, her gaze singularly focused on Aevalle, but he appeals to her regardless. “You cannot be considering this.”

“What rank do you have to break treaties of this magnitude?” The magister scoffs. “I thought higher of your precious Inquisition than breaking all ties with Tevinter over one misplaced slave. From outside your promised reach, if I remember correctly.”

“She is from the Free Marches,” Solas snaps. “ _Not_ Antiva. Which you would know if you _bothered_ to ask her.”

Alexius barks a short, annoyed laugh. “And how would she answer me? Point to a place on a map for me?”

“She would if you _taught her_.”

“My son has no use for a bodyguard who can inform him on the finer points of geography. Lady Pentaghast, would you explain this man’s presence to me or should I have him removed myself?”

“ _Cassandra_ ,” Solas says again. Pleading. “This is a _farce_ , and you know it.”

Still, she looks only at Aevalle.

“I am sorry,” she says, softly. “Truly.”

Aevalle ducks her head.

Cassandra clears her throat. “Commander, have Miss Lavellan escorted to the upper guest rooms, and have your best men remain with her while we go over the papers the Magister has brought.”

Cullen looks—shocked, for a moment. He opens his mouth to protest, only to close it again at Cassandra’s fierce stare. “Of course,” he says, inclining his head.

When Cullen moves towards Aevalle, Solas nearly steps between them again. But Cassandra herself stops him, a hand on his arm.

“And have your men escort Solas to his room,” she adds. The line of her jaw firmly set.

The soldiers with them move to either side of Solas, while Cullen leads Aevalle away. She tries to look at him over her shoulder as they walk, but Cullen sets a brisk pace—he gets only a glance of her as she turns to take the stairs, her eyes trying to find his one last time before she vanishes behind the stone of the battlements.

“Solas,” Cassandra says softly. “I—”

Solas jerks his arm out of Cassandra’s grip. “I understand, _Lady Pentaghast_. I will go peacefully.”

He does not look at her as he turns away—his strides even and the line of his shoulders as straight as his back. Mind whirling, the promise of a full moon singing on the tide, and for once—

—for once there is a tempest under his skin, and he has reason to call upon it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **unseeliequeens**  
>  oooo is this industrialized thedas  
> how does solas feel about water pollution lmao  
> OK, DID SOLAS SEND MERMAID ELVES TO THE LAND  
> poison the water or get rid of their tails or something  
> but if he did aevalle wouldn't be a mermaid  
> so many questions  
> so many mysteries
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  :D
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  don't you :D me
> 
> \--
> 
> Honestly though this was me you should have been expecting some major upheaval sometime right around now
> 
> Also sorry that took so long team, holy shit work has been WILD lately. Also half the province is on fire, and relatives I have never met are in my house.
> 
> Anyway once again thank you for all your wonderful and lovely comments, I am so pleased every time I get an email about Kudos or Comments or I check my notifications on tumblr and something pops up. :)


	9. Under the Protector's Gaze

It is a very nice room they have put her in.

Nicer than the one they gave her to live in, certainly; though the window is smaller, she notes. Not to mention a sheer drop to jagged rocks and crashing waves on the other side, even if she could squeeze through. If she _would_.

She is no stranger to hardship, to fear—the months when the fishing was poor, when the human ships followed them around with their impossibly broad nets and cleared out entire sections of the places they normally fished in a matter of days. When the weather turned foul for weeks on end, and they grounded their _aravels_ and hid in the trees as the sea raged.

As a child, she saw those storms and saw the Dread Wolf luring them from the sea and sealing their gods in the depths, as he did in the stories her Keeper told. In the old songs her father sang, and her mother signed. She held the fear of a child, then—no barrier from the elements but overturned _aravels_ , sailcloth and her parents’ arms.

But there is a different sort of terror, she learned—when she was eight, and her mother grew so ill that she could not hold her hands in the air above her long enough to even sign, _I love you_. And she was as powerless to stop the passing of her mother as the storms over her head.

She was eight. Years passed, and she grew stronger—she learned to laugh again, though her father’s smile never quite reached his eyes again. She learned to fish and hunt, how to read a wave and test a wind, to play her father’s fiddle.

When she was thirteen, she woke one bleak early morning to her father guiding their _aravel_ away from the others. Charting some course on the winds that he never shared with her. Jolted awake by the scuff of the _aravel_ on sand and stone, to his soft cursing as he pulled the boat ashore on his own.

Then, his hand on her shoulder, shaking her further awake. “ _Da’mi._ Wake up.”

She rolled over, and opened her eyes to the hard lines of his bare face. Remembers them, still—finds more of them in the mirror as she gets older. At thirteen, she saw little of his pale features in herself, only the green of his eyes.

He led her through the forest in boot-clad feet—worn nearly through, she thought, looking at his heels as she followed him. Her own wrapped in sealskin, toes exposed, though she had some factory-made shirt thrown over her hunting clothes to ward off the chill of the morning.

She would need to remember to trade for new boots for him, when they were next near a village.

“Where are we going?” she asked when he checked his map for the third time.

“A ruin,” he answered, stiff and terse. Rotated the page before looking again at his surroundings.

“Tevinter?” she guessed, squinting up at the sunlight filtering through the trees.

He opened his mouth, as if to scold her. She bristled for it—but then he relaxed, turned and attempted a smile for her.

“Of the people,” he answered, leading her forward again.

She huffed a breath to blow her dark hair out of her face. But she followed, sticking the end of her spear into the dirt a little harder in retaliation.

“Our people ruled the whole _world_ , Aevalle,” he told her. “Deshanna might have you believe that means only the ocean, but we have legs for a reason. Like the Dalish, our ancestors came to land to feast, to sleep, to wage battle, and to make—”

“ _Children._ I get it,” she snapped, her face warm. She was thirteen and she _knew_ , but that didn’t mean she wanted her father to talk to her about it. Ever. “And—”

He turned when she stopped, abruptly. “And?”

She looked at him again—bare face, shem boots and clothing. A sealskin belt, a halla antler earring carved by her mother, a simple spear like her own…

_You are Dalish too_ , she wanted to say. But after all those years, still he stood separate from the rest of their clan. Distant from even her.

She shook her head.

The ruin was a bright clearing, rubble scattered around the perimeter—steps that led down to darkness and water, and stones on the wall that glow as she neared them.

Her heart was pounding, looking down into the water—salt, certainly, but it smelled like death. Separated for too long from the heartbeat of the sea, and the song it sang made her stomach turn.

“Business as usual,” her father said, already pulling off his shirt. “Find an air pocket I can reach, and come back up right away. Got it?”

She couldn’t tear her gaze from the murky water. Wrinkling her nose.

“Why do I have to go first?”

He grunted in response. She could picture his face without turning to look at it—felt the disapproval in his gaze on her back like a physical thing. “Let me guess. Deshanna’s getting to you again?”

She straightened her shoulders. “No.” She leaned her spear against a half-crumbled pillar to pull her shirt over her head.

“I don’t have your particular… _talent_ for swimming,” he teased with a chuckle.

The hour was still early, the sunlight yellow as it flickered through the trees. There was rain the night before, and she could still feel its bite in the wind. She tried to warm the bare skin of her arms with her hands, but couldn’t quite cover up her shudder as she stared down at the water.

Her father sighed. “ _Da’mi_ ,” he said, coming up behind her.

She turned to face him—looking up at him with wide eyes. He smiled again— _almost_ a real one, almost like the ones she remembered. He planted his hands on her shoulders and gripped them firmly.

“You’re the only one I can trust,” he told her.

She was thirteen. He was her father. All of Deshanna’s lectures about _danger_ and _responsibility_ flew right out of her head, and her chest swelled with pride.

But in the dark, in the depths, with water that felt _wrong_ all around her—

_Check that hall_ , her father signed. Then he pressed his face to the small gap between water and stone, an air pocket just big enough for his mouth and nose.

The hall was dark, the stone of its walls slick on her fingers. And her spear seemed very small, in the face of all Deshanna’s warnings about what was trapped, when the sea broke from the shore.

_Dead end,_ she signed when she returned to her father.

She never saw whatever followed her from that hall. Still doesn’t know if her father bled out or drowned, before she could drag him out of the water and back to the sunlight.

She is twenty-seven now, and she has lost more than her mother and father—her whole clan and her entire world, every _never again_ she swore under the protector’s gaze, all taken in a night. Sitting on a soft bed, staring at a stone wall, the promise of a full moon in her blood and the roar of the ocean in her ears.

But she’s in the hall, again. This time, she knows what awaits on the far end, behind the door she’s too frightened to open.

_I will protect you_ , she promised. In spite of good sense, in spite of her own continued failures in that regard—

Cullen enters the room, interrupting her thoughts. He is looking at her with _such_ pity, and she finds all she can do is meet his gaze.

“I’m afraid Solas has been confined to his room,” he says, breaking the utter silence between them. “But—Varric is asking to see you.”

She only turns and looks at the wall again.

Cullen sighs. Then she hears his boots on the floor, and he sits on the mattress next to her.

“I wanted to ask you,” he says, his voice strained. He swallows. “I wanted to ask—but I suppose I never learned how to understand your answer, did I.”

When she looks at him, there is still pity in his gaze. Sorrow, too—a regret that surprises her, really. But she thinks over their interactions this last week, easy laughter shared among them as they built an orphanage together, and she thinks that perhaps it shouldn’t.

“That _was_ you,” he says. “You dragged me out of the water. You pulled me to shore.”

It’s very strange, that no one has asked her so direct a question since she came. Because she has never been a very good liar.

She only nods.

His jaw tightens. “You had a knife,” he says. “I remember that much. Why—why didn’t you kill me?”

She remembers—much clearer than he. A blade in her hand, sharp and curving, the morning sun glinting off its edge. The ocean at her back, toes digging into unfamiliar sand. A threat hanging over her head, throat raw and bleeding— _bring him to their shore and make a message of their Commander._

But she was so sick of death.

She would tell him that, if she could. That it was exhaustion, in the end, that saved his life. She wonders if he understands, as he watches her expression—thinks she sees some familiarity there, something in his eyes that speaks of her meaning coming across.

If he does, he doesn’t say.

“I know Varric’s been teaching you,” he says, with a finality that means the subject has been dropped. “I could get you some paper if you’d like to write a message. I can pass it on to—to Solas or to Sera, perhaps…”

And it’s strange to admit it, but—she didn’t expect kindness, of all things. To have Cullen at her side, of all people. Not who she would have preferred, but she knows that anyone else would be trying to break her out. That Bull would barrel his way through the door and the guards, that Sera would—well she doesn’t really know _what_ Sera would do but it would be spectacular—and Solas…

She closes her eyes. Thinking of that first day on the beach, sketchbook pages scattered behind him. Touching the healed flesh of her back and _wondering_ —and then later, _his_ touch sealing a harmless scratch on her face, after mending bone and flesh while ocean water lapped around them. His pupils blown so impossibly wide.

His lips on hers. His hand on her arm, on her waist, pulling her back. In a _dream_ , but when she woke it was _real_ , and—

And she was happy, she realises. She danced and played the fiddle and taught those around her how to speak the gestures her mother taught her from birth. She teased Bull and plotted with Sera, enjoyed quiet moments with Blackwall and Cassandra, was comforted by Cole and distracted by Varric in turns.

She was happy. In spite of everything.

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until Cullen puts an arm around her shoulder, tentatively. And she can’t help but collapse into him, burying her face in his shirt and trying but _failing_ to control her sobs.

_She was happy_. And now she is so, so frightened.

_I will protect you_ , she promised Solas. And though she is terrified, though she clutches Cullen’s shirt, shaking and crying, she will keep that promise. She will not fail again.

 

Seahold boasts a large and formidable war room, with windows that open wide to the vast ocean. Nearly the highest thing in the main fortress, aside from an old loft space that they have not properly found a use for. Standing on its narrow balcony, Cassandra normally feels a sense of— _awe_ , at the vastness of the ocean. At the breadth of it all across her vision. She _knows_ that if she sails far enough in one direction, there will be land. Has done it herself, any number of times—has poured over maps and mentioned such great distances offhand, as if they are only numbers. As if the world is only a drawing on paper.

Usually, standing with her back to the war room, she see the ocean stretch out, far beyond the range of her sight, and thinks of how very big the world is, how much there is to protect that she cannot see.

Now, she only feels a helplessness as broad as the horizon.

“We are going to give her to him,” she says after only a single glance over her shoulder at the woman who has just walked through the door.

Josephine is a wreck. Has foregone her hat, her delicate reading glasses tangled up in her hair. She drops the documents on the war table with a frustrated sigh, and Cassandra pretends not to notice the enraged trembling of her hands.

“They are all in order,” she admits. “If Solas is right and she came from the Free Marches and not Antiva—which I suspect he is—then these are the most excellent forgeries I have ever seen.”

“Rather,” corrects Leliana, a ghost lingering at the edges of the room, “I suspect these are real documents for a _different_ slave. One who matches her description well enough.”

“And Magister Alexius was _kind_ enough to explain her muteness away as an injury she received in a failed attempt on his son’s life.” Josephine lets out a noise similar to a frustrated growl. So utterly undignified that it would be amusing, in any other situation. “I have tried to exploit every loophole I know, Cassandra, but he is persistent. When I pointed out she had been in our employ for a month, he insisted the equivalence of her wages be transferred to his estate!”

Leliana scowls. “And now he is demanding she be returned to him, or he will be within his rights to petition the Imperial Senate for permission to enact retribution on the Inquisition for property theft.”

“Which they would grant him, since we no longer have the _Justinia_ to frighten them.” Cassandra turns her gaze down to the war table map, as if it has answers for her. “I doubt we would lose such a battle. But we might lose more ships…”

“Then the Imperium would be within their rights to declare war on the Inquisition.” Cullen closes the door behind him as he enters. “And Fereldan and Orlais would be dragged into it.”

“How is she?” Leliana asks, softly.

Cullen only shakes his head.

Cassandra sighs. “I don’t care what he says about his son,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “No one comes all this way and threatens _war_ for a bodyguard. There is something else going on here.”

The silence in the room speaks for itself.

“If we only had more time,” Josephine begins to say as the door opens again.

Vivienne breezes in, followed by a rattled looking soldier. “I tried to tell her no one was to enter, sir,” he says to Cullen while the enchanter ignores the rest of them and walks right up to Cassandra.

“A word,” she says, with a tone that implies she is not to be denied.

Cassandra inclines her head. The others leave with only a few curious glances—Leliana’s more significant than the rest, as if she has her own private suspicions as to the result of this particular conversation.

When the room is empty, Cassandra allows a heavy sigh. She leaves the doorframe to go and lean on the war table. “I have a feeling you are not terribly surprised by this turn of events.”

“I am not.” Vivienne joins her at the table, standing with a straight back and crossed arms. “I suspected she was once a slave when we met. A poor one, I think. Too proud by far.”

“You think her whole clan was slaughtered or sold, illegally, across Tevinter. And you did not tell us.”

Vivienne pauses. “I thought it a kindness,” she says, softly. “To let her start anew, somewhere safe.”

Cassandra scoffs. She pushes herself off the table and begins to pace, furiously. “ _Safe_ ,” she says, the word bordering on a snarl. “When we have no choice but to hand her off to the first magister desperate enough to come looking for her. And we have no idea _why_.”

“You cannot blame yourself for political red tape, Cassandra. The Starkhaven Accord has been abused by Tevinter before, and will be again. You’re not the first to find it vexing.”

Cassandra is only half-listening. “She accused me once of failing her clan. Allowing them to be taken. Did I ever tell you? Not in so many words.” She stops, the ocean full in her view again. Vast. Too vast. “I thought… it was bandits. Or Disease. That she and other survivors had sunk the _Justinia_ out of a sense of revenge. But now…”

Vivienne’s heels click precisely on the stone floor as she approaches Cassandra from behind. “If she had anything to do with the loss of the _Justinia_ …”

“Then it was not her doing, but Alexius.” Cassandra exhales, shaking her head. “And she was as powerless to stop him as we are.”

“You are too hard on yourself, my dear,” Vivienne says.

Cassandra scoffs. “Not hard enough, it seems.”

Vivienne hums, as if she disagrees. “Now that’s not very productive,” she says, and when Cassandra turns to her there is a clever glint in her eye.

 

“I would have preferred to charter a private vessel,” the magister is saying as he and Josephine cross the courtyard.

Sera and the others are standing around, trying to ignore all the eyes on them— _Keep them from doing anything stupid_ , Cullen had said. Like _smart_ was giving her friend up to some crazy Vint with an evil laugh.

Not that he’s done that yet. But she’s waiting for it. While all the Inquisition soldiers are standing around looking at the _wrong people_ , she’s watching him like a hawk.

Josie, to her credit, looks like hell. Her ruffles out of place, her eyes all puffy—she looks like she might have tried to pull her hair out, in a couple places. Thrown a hat on overtop all crooked to cover it up.

“The _Haven_ is the fastest ship under the Inquisition’s banner,” she tells him. Sounding like she wants nothing more than to keel haul him with it. Sera almost laughs at that—the ambassador all riled up, any other day, would be _hilarious_. “I thought you wished to reach Tevinter with a certain level of haste? Are you not eager to return your son’s bodyguard to him? Or am I permitted to go over your records for a few more days?”

He stalls. Then smiles—the kind of smile that makes Sera’s skin go all crawly. “Of course,” he says. “Of course. I thank you for extending your hospitality so far for me.”

“Bullshit,” Sera grumbles, under her breath.

Behind her, Bull is standing tall with his arms crossed—trying to look imposing, he thinks. All scary Qunari, big horns and bigger scowl.

“Never seen a man so nervous about a free ride,” the big Qunari says.

“Wish it was a slower boat.” Blackwall is beside him, whittling away on a child’s toy. But he’s had his knife on the one spot too long, and the little wooden soldier is almost missing an arm, now. “She’s right, there’s not a ship in the fleet that can catch up to the _Haven_ , rickety old thing that it is.”

“Not that it matters anyway,” Varric grumbles as he comes down the stairs at their backs—followed by two soldiers who should have better things to do than stop them from rescuing their friend.

“How’s Solas holding up?” Bull asks.

“Still in his room. Don’t think they’re letting him out, if his new personal honour guard is anything to go by.”

“What for?” Sera throws a small rock at the magister’s head. He’s too far away, so it bounces uselessly on the stones. She imagines it landing in his ridiculous boots and being stuck there for the rest of his miserable, stupid magister life. Which will be short. Hopefully.

“I think they’re worried he’ll try something, Buttercup.”

“Like what?” Blackwall looks up from his carving to raise one shaggy brow at Varric. “Glare at them? Hurt their feelings with vague insults and his attitude?”

“I didn’t say it was anything _smart_.” Varric crosses his arms and glances significantly at the many soldiers watching them, from high on the battlements or the other side of the courtyard. “Not that we’re in a better position to do anything.”

“Did they let you see Aevalle?” Sera asks. Her voice sounds weird in her own head—her throat’s all scratchy from yelling at Cullen, before they dragged her away from him.

Varric only shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“Bullshit,” Sera grumbles again, with a little more feeling.

“And, Magister,” Josie says—her words carrying across the courtyard as the man in question turns to leave. “I hope you will entertain a visit from a friend of mine, upon your return. In my place—my duties don’t allow me the privilege of free travel, or I would come myself.”

“I will pour my finest vintage,” he promises, turning to leave once again.

“It is my dearest wish that Miss Lavellan be present,” she says. “She’s become quite dear to us. You can imagine how much I would like to receive a report of her in good health.”

Alexius smiles—then inclines his head.

The doors to the keep swing open, and Cullen leads Aevalle out.

She does not—does not _look_ at them. Keeps her head down, and though Cullen’s hold on her is not firm she makes no move to break free of it. To try and run.

And that—that is just so fucking _stupid,_ isn’t it. _You fought a gross giant eel with a stick_ , she wants to scream. _You went out in the ocean and bagged the biggest fish I’ve ever seen—and you’re just gonna let him take you?_

There is a broad hand on her shoulder—and Sera turns and looks up, _up_ , at Bull. Who is watching the same thing with a careful eye and a tight jaw.

“We’ll get her back,” he promises.

Sera looks at Aevalle again—at Cassandra following behind, not looking at them either. At Vivienne in step with her, dressed in her shiny travelling clothes, who _does_ look at them, but she looks the same as always and Sera could really stand to slug her for it, right about now.

“Yeah,” Sera agrees, her voice thick. Watching her friend be led down to the harbour, and away from the safety of the Keep. “We better.”

 

About an hour after the sun sets, Solas hears the scrape and scratch of picks at his lock.

When the door opens, Cole stands on the other side, the guards who have been charged with watching him slumped against the walls.

“Only sleeping,” the spirit says.

Solas is—surprised that he cares, at the relief that he feels. A thought he will tuck away for later examination.

“Where is she?”

“Gone. Took the fastest ship, but it won’t be fast enough.”

Solas curses. He slips past Cole and through the doorway, nearly running down the hall. “Why didn’t you get me sooner?”

Cole falls into step beside him. “She didn’t want me to.”

He slows to a stop. Exhales, slowly—Cole shuffles in place next to him, knowing the turmoil of Solas’ emotions without having to hear them. Solas reminds himself not to be angry—Cole is only following his nature.

“And why,” Solas says—makes himself say it _slowly_ , so he does not yell, “did she not want to be rescued?”

“It’s not Alexius she’s afraid of,” Cole answers, and Solas hears footsteps coming down the corridor.

Sera turns the corner first—and skids to a halt so fast that Blackwall nearly charges right into her from behind.

“Solas! Good, Creepy got you out. Now come _on_!”

Blackwall narrowly avoids being barrelled right over as she takes off back the way they came.

“We meant to get you sooner,” the Warden explains as they all fall into step behind her—although not quite keeping up with her pace. “Couldn’t shake our own, er, _escort_.”

“What ship did they take?”

“The _Haven_. But looks like a storm brewing—might hold them back long enough for us to catch up, if the wind weren’t against us.”

“Or make it so we lose them in it.” They break into the open air, to a full moon shining through the clouds. The sea air tingles on his skin, and every breath he takes is laced with that ancient power, pulled from the depths by the light of the moon.

He pauses to lean over the battlements—as if scanning the horizon for the signs of the storm Blackwall mentioned. Instead, thinking that the quickest way would be to forgo the ship and the others’ aid completely.

Not for the first time, he wonders that he is—not even _considering_ letting her go. Considering how much any rescue effort on his part will ruin, how many of his plans it will throw into utter disarray.

Cole’s urgent words interrupt his thoughts. “They can’t go around,” he whispers. “It’s not a storm.”

“Oi!” Sera calls, already halfway down the stairs. “No time for _moping_. Come on!”

Cole and Blackwall follow without hesitation. Solas looks one last time at the sea, before turning and running after them.

When he reaches the stairs, however, he hears a commotion starting up on the other side of the wall—a pounding on the sealed doors that lead to town, followed by shouting.

“Hello! Anyone there? It’s an emergency, please, let us in!”

Solas pauses, frowning. That is—a Tevene accent. High class, if he is not mistaken. Very like Alexius’, in fact.

“ _Fastevas!_ Does no one in this miserable country stay up past sunset?”

“Stop griping, or they’ll kick us out for sure. Hello!”

“Ah yes, I forgot, the sun has gone down and we must all flee the dark like little scurrying animals! Perhaps someday we will invent fire or electricity to light our way, but until then we must huddle behind walls and refuse to answer when people come knocking.”

An exasperated sigh. “Dorian…”

“Don’t _Dorian_ me. It’s not _my_ fault she never met me in Kirkwall! Wasted a good two weeks in that miserable ass of a city, sitting on my hands so no one would cut them off—”

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“—only for _you_ to insist we take that wretched excuse for a passenger ship. That was blown off course by the slightest wind—did I mention that we were nearly shipwrecked and _died_ on our way to save our friend from some horrible, nameless thing you insist is after her?”

Solas takes the stairs down two at a time.

“You know, it’s a miracle your complaining hasn’t woken the whole city.”

“We’re calling _this_ a city now? And my _complaints,_ as you call them, so far have been mild, considering we had to ride in the back of a cart full of _hay_ half the way because our ship landed in the ass end of nowhere, and then we had to walk because the horse threw a shoe—”

“ _Kaffas_. I was _there_ , Dorian.”

When Solas reaches the bottom of the stairs, the others have gathered by the front gate. Bull has his arms crossed and it staring at it, suspiciously—as if he can see through to the other side. Sera looks impatient, gesturing to the gate that leads to the docks—and then to the keep, where Solas can see movement in the windows, the flickering of lights as the commotion begins to alert those inside.

_Open it_ , Solas signs when Bull looks back at him, an eyebrow raised in question.

Bull removes the crossbar, then pulls one of the heavy doors open.

On the other side stand two Tevinter men—dressed in relatively fine clothes, Solas notes, although they are slightly ragged around the edges. From the sound of their journey, he honestly expected worse.

“Finally!” proclaims the one with the moustache—Dorian, Solas thinks, from the sound of his voice. “And here I thought we’d be waiting all night.”

“We’re looking for our friend,” the other one says, interrupting whatever Dorian is about to say. “She’s in trouble. She’s an elf, dark skin, red hair—about so tall? She doesn’t speak, and she’d be keeping her neck covered.”

“You’re a little late,” Sera snaps, standing on her toes to peer over Solas’ shoulder.

“One of your _countrymen_ already took her,” Solas says. “A magister Alexius?”

The men share a look. Dorian curses, and his friend runs a hand over his head, his expression falling.

“When?” Dorian demands, taking a step forward. “And why—why didn’t you _stop_ him? Aren’t you supposed to be the _free south_ , where you don’t stand for slavery and letting us blasphemous northerners swoop in and take people away?”

“Let me guess,” the other one says—softer, but no less enraged. “He threatened action under the Starkhaven Accord. Brought the appropriate paperwork.”

“The _forged_ paperwork,” Dorian snaps back. “All the while some mad cult leader is after her. Remind me again, Felix, how your father got mixed up in this?”

“Who is after her?” Solas asks.

Before they can answer, a voice calls out from behind them. “Excuse me, but did you say _forged_ paperwork?”

Everyone turns, and Bull steps aside. Josephine stands, carrying a candle, dressed in a nightgown and a jacket, looking down at them over the reading glasses still perched on the tip of her nose. Her eyes, Solas notes, are bloodshot and puffy—but her lips form a sharp, determined line.

Over her shoulder stands Leliana, appraising the strangers with a careful eye.

The one named Felix produces a handful of papers out of his jacket. “Whatever my father showed you,” he says, as Josephine steps forward to take them, “these letters prove that her clan was attacked in the Free Marches, where they were either killed or illegally brought over to Tevinter.”

“I don’t understand.” Josephine begins flipping through the pages with a careful eye. “She… she said _nothing_ of this. Gave no hint. Just… let herself be taken, when she didn’t have to.”

“You said something about a cult leader?” Leliana says, leaning over Josephine’s shoulder to examine the papers. “This seal—I believe that represents the Venatori? My sources said nothing about Alexius being counted among their number.”

“Here,” Josephine interrupts. Pointing to a line at the bottom of one of the letters. “It says, ‘The Elder One is particularly interested in the rumours of a talented singer among the wild elves. She is his, do with the rest what you will.’ But, that can’t be Aevalle, she…”

At mention of an Elder One, Solas inhales a sharp, short breath, and his heart beats harder against his chest. But— _no_. That’s not possible.

“I don’t know who that is,” Felix says. “But there’s more mentions of an Elder One in my father’s correspondence than not lately. All of it relates to Aevalle. Whatever he has planned for her, it’s not good.”

Sera curses. “Who _cares_?” she snaps, throwing her hands in the air. “She’s halfway to bloody Tevinter by now! We have to hurry up or we won’t catch her!”

“With _what_?” Josephine asks. “There’s no ship left in the fleet that can match the _Haven_ for speed.”

“They’ll have to go around that storm, yeah? Then we just plow straight through. Catch ‘em on the other side.”

The loud one—Dorian—interrupts Sera. “That is _if_ their destination is Tevinter at all. For all we know, there might be a Venatori ambush lying in wait for them before they can get close.”

“Not to mention the wind is against us, now.” Bull gestures to the sky, where clouds are moving across the stars in the opposite direction they need to go. “And the Chargers are looking, but unless there’s a steam ship with the boilers already stoked and full, we’re not going anywhere for a few hours, at best.”

_This is a waste of time_ , Solas thinks. He glances back over his shoulder, towards the open doors that lead down to the docks, and wonders how long it would take for the others to notice he had vanished.

Sera snaps, “Then we just need a ship that—”

At her sudden stop, Solas looks at her. She turns to him, wide-eyed, a grin working its way onto her face.

“— _that ship_ ,” she finishes. “We need the haunted ship.”

“Haunted,” Dorian parrots, incredulous. “I heard that correctly? Haunted? What _charming_ little folk tales you southerners come up with.”

“It is not _haunted_ ,” Solas corrects, unable to stop himself. “It houses a _spirit_. Hardly the same as some imagined spectre of the dead.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, however, what she is trying to tell him _clicks_ in his mind—he stares at Sera, at her ever-increasing grin, and feels his own features rising to match it. Possibilities he did not consider suddenly coming to mind, puzzle pieces fitting into place.

The whole while, the others look between him and Sera with increasingly baffled expressions.

“Chuckles, Buttercup,” Varric interrupts. “What the _fuck_ are you two talking about?”

Dorian, however, has a glint in his eye that suggests he has followed the conversation and the implications perfectly well. “You mean to say there is a spirit powered vessel in the vicinity?” Sera’s infectious grin is spreading to his features now, and Solas can see the whirling of a bright mind turning the possibilities over as his eyes flick to Solas, then Sera, then back again. “How did you find such a thing? And—ah, more importantly. Will it work?”

Solas straightens. Torn between eagerness to get to Aevalle as quickly as possible, and the necessity that he not show his hand too soon. “It… _could_ ,” he says. “I—I did not look too closely at it, but it _appeared_ intact. To the best of my knowledge.”

Dorian brings a hand to his mouth, his gaze narrowing. “And you do… _what_ , exactly?”

“I’m an artist,” Solas answers with a patience he does not feel.

He huffs. “Comforting.”

And then—a soft voice, from just over Solas’ shoulder. “It will help, if you ask.”

Everyone turns. Cole, standing just behind Solas, wrings his hands together. “It liked her,” is the only explanation he offers.

“Good enough for me,” Sera says. She wastes no more time—she takes off immediately, tearing across the courtyard in the direction of the Keep proper. Solas starts running after her, closely followed by Cole.

Varric calls after them. “Chuckles? Buttercup? Kid! The docks are _that_ way!”

“We’re not going to the docks!” Sera yells back. Already leaps and bounds ahead of Solas and Cole.

 

 “How, exactly, did we miss this?” Josephine wonders, a kerchief pressed to her face. “The stench _alone_ …”

The hall is _massive_ , although what its purpose must have been Josephine cannot guess. She cannot even make out the stone in an attempt to determine which of the many phases of construction in the fortress this hall belongs to; covered at every turn by pale, sickly molluscs, dead or dying as they cling to the wall. No water to support them. All of them utterly still, in the light produced by either the mages or Leliana’s lantern.

“We didn’t _miss_ it,” Leliana says, allowing Josie to steady herself on her arm as they walk. The earth beneath their feet is only somewhat dry, and though they do not sink down at all, it’s slick to walk on. “The hall was deemed structurally safe, but a dead end. It seems we should have explored further. My reports all said it was completely flooded, however.”

“Until two days ago, it was,” Solas informs her, his own sleeve covering his mouth and nose. “Quickly. We are almost there.”

It is—very sweet, Josephine thinks. The lengths Solas is willing to go to for Aevalle. Unsettling in turns—the fire that lights their way, held in palms by their new _acquaintances_ Dorian and Felix, casts the determined lines of Solas’ face into dark, dark shadows. Turning his features into something… _utterly_ unlike the softspoken artist she knows so well.

Thought she knew, she supposes. He seems very different down here.

Well, his affections for the girl are no secret. He is simply worried—as they all are.

Leliana shows obvious surprise when they reach the end of the hall and find tall, gilded doors hanging open. She opens her mouth to ask, but Solas merely continues on—sliding down the hill of mud and silt, Sera close on his heels.

“May I help you down, my lady?” Blackwall offers her his hand, as one by one the others slide down after them.

She and the Warden are the last to slide down. To her surprise, and perhaps a little delight, the ground beneath is covered in a soft, springy lichen. She sinks in well past her ankles, as if it were a particularly plush carpet.

The pile of bones before her, however…

“What,” she breathes, “was that?”

“Some sort of eel, perhaps?” Leliana ventures. Kneeling down to pick up a bone and hold it closer to Dorian’s flames—picked utterly clean, but still coloured by the muscle and flesh that would have clung to it in life. “Eight, nine feet long?”

Sera is nudging its skull with her boot. “Eugh. That was… _quick_.”

“Shit,” Varric says, looking up and down the skeleton’s length with impossibly wide eyes. “I thought you’d just smoked some bad elfroot, Buttercup—that really _happened_?”

“Boss? Killed _this_?” Bull whistles, impressed. “I uh—I owe Krem a sovereign.”

Josephine looks, again, at the bones before her—seeing half a spear, sticking out of its eye socket.

“If she could kill such a thing,” she whispers, slowly.

“Then why did she let the magister take her?” Leliana finishes. Looking suspiciously at Dorian and Felix.

She is jolted out of her thoughts by Solas calling, “This way.” He walks away from them, nearly out of the light of the fire now. Pale little crabs scurrying away as he passes, into the darkness.

Blackwall steadies her as they walk down the stairs—slick with grime and plant life that Josephine can’t recognise, in such darkness, they must go slow. She nearly slips more than once, her slippers simply not meant for this sort of activity, but the Warden catches her with a steady arm each time, a soothing word and a gentle touch to help her back on her feet.

Oh, Leliana will tease her _endlessly_ for this, later. She can already hear it— _so out of practice, Josie? I thought you more graceful than that_.

There is some sort of dock at the bottom of the stairs, and it has been completely submerged. She can’t help her surprised gasp at the chill of the water, when her toes first touch it. Soaking right through the thin slippers that she’d had the presence of mind to throw on before rushing out of her room when she heard commotion at the gate.

She stops to take them off before Blackwall helps her down into the water. Up to her knees, so even lifting her nightgown is utterly useless.

This will be the last time she prepares for bed early.

Ahead, Solas is nimbly climbing the side of a vessel Josephine can’t make out. As Dorian approaches, she sees a curve of dark metal—the soft green glow of letters she’s never seen beginning to light up.

As they approach the ship, she sees a smear of old, dried blood marring one of the symbols. Curious.

“Wait,” Leliana says, as Josie makes to climb the side of the ship. “If Cassandra and the others are sailing into a trap as Dorian tells us…”

Josie swallows—following Leliana’s train of thought, she steps away from the ship. Albeit reluctantly. “Then we cannot have the Inquisition utterly crippled, should it all go wrong.”

Blackwall is the last to climb. Josephine wraps her arms around herself, only partly because of the chill, and Leliana stands at her side, squinting up towards the flickering lights above them.

“Strange,” Leliana says. “There are no beams, nowhere to attach a sail… no exhaust for steam…”

Josephine has the peculiar feeling of someone breathing on her ear. She turns, but there is nothing there.

 “Well,” comes Dorian’s voice from above. “What now?”

The boy answers him—oh, and Josephine wishes she could remember his _name_ , but it always escapes her. “We ask.”

Josephine has the absurd thought that she has no idea the proper etiquette to converse with a haunted ship.

But it is Solas who speaks next; softly, as if to an old, old friend. “ _Atisha, ma falon_.”

“Wazzat?” Sera blurts. Anything further she tries to say is immediately hushed by Dorian.

“ _Ma lethallan isala halani_.”

Everyone waits in utter silence. Josephine and Leliana stare up at the ship’s deck where all the others stand, expectantly. The only sound among them the lapping of water on stone.

“Well,” Blackwall says. “That didn’t—”

Something on the deck of the ship lights up—and there is a sound, like metal sliding on metal, that sounds like it is disappearing somewhere into the bowels of the ship.

“What’s going on?” Leliana shouts.

“Uh—looks like stairs just opened up,” Varric calls back, bewildered. “Into the uh—haunted ship.”

“It is not _haunted_ ,” Solas corrects, although he sounds distracted.

“Down we go,” the boy— _Cole_ —says, as Josie hears footsteps on the stairs.

“How exactly are we getting out of this place?” Bull asks. “I mean, yeah, weird spirit ship still works. But—we’re completely surrounded by rock. There’s no way out.”

“Water has to get in from _somewhere_ ,” Sera argues back. From the sound of her boots on the metal, she approaches the stairs, but does not enter the ship. “Creepy? Anything… _weird_ down there?”

“Only me,” Cole calls, his voice muffled.

She curses. But, after a moment’s hesitation, Josephine can hear the sound of boots on the stairs.

“It’s dry,” she calls up at length. “Smells like old socks, though.”

More green light seems to come from the top of the ship—and then all along the sides new patterns light up, and then—

Then the ship begins to lower itself into the water.

“You’re sinking!” Josephine yells. She tries, rather foolishly, to reach out and grab at the ship’s surface, but Leliana holds her back.

“I suggest we hurry,” Solas says, his voice disappearing into the ship.

“Chuckles, are you nuts? Tell Buttercup and the Kid to get out of there!”

There is no answer. Only a silence that stretches so long Josephine almost screams in frustration.

Then, from Felix, “Well, Dorian? Could it be worse than the last one?”

Dorian barks a short, bright laugh. “Hardly. At least we _know_ this one is sinking.”

“They can’t be serious,” Josephine breathes, incredulous. She looks over at Leliana, who is watching the whole thing with only a single raised brow. “Can they?”

“They say that the elves came from the sea,” the spymaster offers, as one by one the others begin their now hurried descent into the rapidly sinking ship. “I imagine it would have done them little good to have a ship that only sailed its surface. Wouldn’t you?”

She hears the sound of metal sliding on metal, and the ship begins to move forward, powered by some force Josephine can’t identify. It continues its descent, and when it finally slips into the water, its passage is betrayed only by a subtle green glow.

Slowly, that too disappears, leaving Leliana and Josephine standing in the light of her lantern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly having my work beta'd by [valyrias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias)/[unseeliequeens](http://unseeliequeens.tumblr.com/)/[roosettes](http://roosettes.tumblr.com/) is probably the greatest experience of my life so here's another gem from our conversation over the last chapter:
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  oh my god  
> are halla like hippocampi in this au  
> oh my god oh my god
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  They're weird white dolphins with horns  
> Don't ask me how that works
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
> ... they could be like hippocampi
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  Haha they could be whatever you want them to be
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hippocampus_(mythology)
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  I am aware yeah, I was just picturing Dolphins
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  oh  
> ok  
> white dolphins with horns  
> so there's no deer-likeness to them?  
> they're just dolphins  
> with horns
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  I mean hey they could be hippocampus I just can't picture how they would swim
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  they would doggy paddle
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  Oh my god  
> *crying laughter emoji*
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  LMAO
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  :D  
> I just had the best mental image  
> I'm gonna go with weird Dolphins but that has a special place in my heart
> 
> (later)
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  Varric tethras should have a stunning rendition of kiss the girl in this chapter  
> He doesn't but he should
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  you know, it's not published yet  
> there's still time
> 
> Anyway this is a large number of chapters to not have mermaids in it for what is supposedly a mermaid AU so uh, sorry about that team. I swear I didn't plan it this way.


	10. With Stolen Power

Jim is really, honestly and truly, not paid enough for this job.

“Join the Inquisition, they said,” he grumbles, peering out from his perch in the crow’s nest of the _Haven_.  “Help bring order and justice to the world, they said.” His arms wrapped around his chest, he scowls into the rapidly approaching storm to the east—where the glitter of stars and the brilliance of the full moon on the water are obscured by swirling, ominous clouds and the occasional flash of lightning—great sheets of it arching in the sky, nothing in the ocean below for it to strike.

There’s one now—he counts, absently, and notes that the thunder rolls over him almost immediately after. Not that he can’t _see_ how close the storm is, or smell the static on the air.

He grew up around ships—he grew up with old rhymes and wives’ tales that warned of sailing when the moon was full. He hasn’t really believed in them since he was a boy, but looking at that storm…

They’ve been trying to change course for the better part of the evening to avoid it. The wind keeps shifting, though, and Jim really isn’t in the mood to climb down from his post for the fourth time to inform the Commander that they need to adjust their course _again_.

Cullen is sour enough, honestly, even _without_ constant interruptions. He’s been in private talks with the Lady Pentaghast and that Vivienne lady since the ship set sail—and none of it good, judging by the utter silence each time he enters the room.

But there is another ominous flash of sheet lightning, and Jim really does not want to get soaked as well as screamed at by Commander Cullen, so with a heavy sigh he begins to climb down the rigging, grumbling all the way.

“Who even makes a treaty with Tevinter anyway?” he mutters. “Who decided that was a good idea? Because _they_ should be the ones stuck on lookout duty. Not me.”

He only gets halfway down when he hears the sound of something large breaking the surface of the water on the port side of the ship.

He freezes in place. A quick glance around assures him that he is more or less alone, here—aside from a couple of sailors who are lounging near one of the starboard lifeboats, passing a tobacco pipe back and forth. They’ve been there for only a few minutes, chatting to one another perhaps a little too loudly for Jim’s liking. Their conversation carries on—presumably, they have not heard the noise.

He strains to hear over their voices—catches a soft curse, then frantic hushing.

He stays where he is, peering into the moonlit night at where he thinks the noise is coming from. And— _there_ , by the stern, there’s movement. The sound of something being thrown, the whirl of a rope unwinding in the air, then the dull sound of metal on wood. In the moonlight he sees the glint of a hook, catching the railing.

It is probably _not_ to his credit as a sailor that he hangs there, dumbfounded at the sheer _audacity_ of it, long enough for someone to climb to the top. He catches an eerie flash of elven pupils, twin green gleams in the dark, immediately followed by someone with a broad hat and a vague shape.

The next person who follows is another elf—and when they move their hands in patterns Jim has seen before, he nearly breathes a sigh of relief.

 _Oh_ , he almost says out loud. Watches a few more human figures, a dwarf and a Qunari climb over the rail, one by one. The Qunari being the most telling—those horns are mighty distinctive. Most of them armed; the glint of metal in their hands catching the sporadic moonlight.

He finds a rather warm smile spreading across his own face as he watches them look around, sign at one another, then split up. Some remain up top, while the others slip below the _Haven’s_ deck, in the direction of the brig.

There are few people on this ship who are _not_ fond of the pretty Miss Lavellan—Jim climbs back to the crow’s nest with a lightness in his heart that makes him feel like a boy again, climbing up the mast of his father’s small ship to watch the halla leaping out of the water in the distance.

 

They meet with no resistance as they slip below deck.

That _alone_ is enough to give him pause. There is crew enough on the ship for them to be tripping over, but aside from the two he glimpsed earlier lounging by the lifeboat he has yet to see a soul. Heard them, certainly—the scuff of boots on wood planks, coughs and heavy breathing passing through the walls as if they are paper.

He tries to tell himself that it is the late hour—that the lookout failed to notice them, preoccupied by the oncoming storm, and that the rest of the crew is all asleep. But it is an answer that does not sit well with him as they descend, slipping past too many closed doors for every one to simply be a coincidence.

His expression must be telling, because with a glance upward Varric’s own face breaks into a wry smile.

 _Relax_ , he signs. _Even sailors have to sleep sometime_.

 _Do they?_ Dorian signs back, with a sharp quirk to his brow.

That in itself had been a surprising revelation—standing on deck, Sera quickly signed, _What now_?

Only for Felix to respond, _We need to find out where they’re keeping her._ Fluidly, without hesitation—as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sera was the first to recover—a quick grin, the pupils of her eyes flashing in the dark. _Guess you really are her friends, yeah?_

Now, in the poorly lit depths of the ship, Blackwall takes point while Dorian, Felix, Sera, Varric and Solas follow. The Grey Warden has his service pistol out, and he hardly pauses to listen at each door before leading them further down. His back to them, oblivious to the silent conversation behind him.

 _I hate to agree with our dour friend here,_ Dorian continues, _but shouldn’t they all be preparing for that absurdly large storm on the horizon?_

 _They could all be taking a break_ , Varric suggests. From the tilt of his head and the somewhat pleading look in his eyes, it could almost be a question. _At the same time._

 _Lucky for us_ , Sera signs, urgently. _Hurry up!_

Blackwall motions for them to stop, peering around the stairs, and even though they have been making no sound all of them cease signing immediately.

Solas hears footsteps, then Cassandra’s voice. “You are dismissed for the evening.”

Her tone invites no argument—Solas only hears a quick, muttered reply, and then the heavy boots of a soldier making his way back up the stairs.

Blackwall signals for them to fall back, already moving from his perch at the landing himself. The others begin to obey, as quickly and silently as they can.

Solas hesitates—only Varric pulling on his sleeve forces him to obey.

They have to retreat only another flight of stairs before they hear a door open below them, and the soldier slips inside.

Solas does not wait for Blackwall to motion them forward—he presses past without acknowledging the Warden’s signal to wait, slips around the corner to an empty hallway, and begins to walk with quick, steady strides, back down to where they heard Cassandra’s voice.

The others follow behind him—with little more than an aggravated sigh from Sera at his back.

He is expecting a fight waiting for him—he even reaches out, tentatively, for the rush of the ocean that is so near, just past the creak of wooden boards and sway and snap of sailcloth. All that power pulled from the depths by the moonlight, waiting for him to just reach out and take it, welcome it into himself all over again. To be able to lift his hand, and tear a hole in the side of the weathered old ship with little more than a thought.

But then he reaches the bottom stair, and he hears Vivienne’s voice.

“… and when you reach Jader, my dear Bastien’s cousin will be waiting for you. She will send word to Seahold—discreetly of course—and that is when we will tell the others you are safe. You are welcome to stay in her estates as long as you like; she’s found employment for you there, if you wish to take it.”

And it’s—very strange, Solas thinks, in the silence that follows. That he is simultaneously so surprised and— _not_ , at the same time. Even as he approaches the open door, and letting the power he’s pulled at slip between his fingers. Even as he turns and sees Cassandra, Cullen, and Vivienne standing before an open cell door, and Aevalle still sitting inside, wide-eyed and unmoving. Even then, he has a hard time pinpointing exactly _what_ he is feeling.

“I don’t want to rush you,” Cullen says, gently. “But there’s little time. The storm will overtake your lifeboat if you don’t hurry now.”

“It’s hardly an ideal escape,” Cassandra says as Aevalle continues to look between them, blank faced and dumbstruck. “But this is the best we could do on such short notice. I am—” Cassandra’s voice falters, and she takes a moment to compose herself. “I am sorry we let you believe, even for a moment, we would allow you be taken like this.”

The apology seems to shake Aevalle out of her shock. She tries to sign, then aborts the movement nearly as soon as she’s started it. Her face twists, and she looks as if she is about to cry.

But it’s not relief he reads on her features.

“Whatever’s the matter, my dear?” Vivienne approaches her then, but Aevalle only stands and shakes her head as the Madame reaches out to comfort her.

From where he stands, Solas can see tears running down her cheeks. _You have to get off this ship_ , she signs, her hands shaking. _You have to leave me here. Please._

Behind Solas, unable to see into the room, Varric says, “So does this mean we _didn’t_ need to mount a rescue mission on an ancient elven boat we found in Seahold’s basement?”

Vivienne, Cassandra, and Cullen all turn at once—Cullen in open shock, Cassandra in annoyance, and Vivienne like she’s been expecting them to appear at any moment.

Aevalle stares at Solas, frozen mid-sign, and he watches as her expression simultaneously lightens and falls at the sight of him.

What is she running from, he wonders—is about to sign it, too, when another voice comes from the hall at Solas’ back. “What do you _mean_ you were going to let her out in a rowboat in this weather? Are you all completely insane?”

At the sound of Dorian’s voice, Aevalle’s eyes widen. Then she makes a sign Solas has never seen before—he can’t quite make out the details, but it’s a little flick of the wrist outward, fingers moving from pinched to flaired.

She does it again, and he realises it’s a name. _Dorian?_

The man in question shoves his way past Solas, Felix close behind him. “Where is she?” he demands. “Where— _oh_.”

She makes another sign Solas doesn’t recognise—something lower down her body, more subtle so Solas doesn’t quite catch it. But then she is in movement—rushing forward and throwing her arms around Dorian’s shoulders, holding him tight even as he returns the embrace. And a heartbeat later Felix receives much the same treatment, even as Dorian looks her up and down with a frustrated—but entirely fond—sigh.

“Two weeks!” he says, as she pulls back from Felix to wipe at her eyes with the palm of her hand. “I waited in that miserable hole of a city for you for two weeks! And you didn’t show!”

“You look—” Felix starts and stops, his voice thick. “Aevalle, you look _well_.”

“Yes,” Dorian agrees, as if he is relenting, “they’ve been feeding you well at least, your hair’s gotten quite long, yes yes—two weeks, and the whole time you’re lounging about in a charming little seaside estate while I’m growing absolutely sick with worry over you and whatever’s in the _air_ there—”

“You know,” interrupts Vivienne, looking right at Solas. “The plan _was_ to give her an escape while making certain none of you could be blamed for it. Had you all been patient enough to wait.”

 _You can’t be here,_ she signs with impatient gestures. _None of you can—he’s coming for me._

“Yes, this _Elder One_ ,” Dorian says, raising his hands in an attempt to placate her. “Well I’m certain he won’t be able to keep up with our fancy little ride we’ve procured.”

“Or find it,” Sera interrupts, from somewhere beyond the doorway. The room is too small to allow everyone in. “It sinks! On purpose!”

“Elder One?” Cassandra says. Ignoring Sera’s comment, her expression making it clear she doesn’t believe a word of it. “I thought Alexius was the one who wanted you. Who is this Elder One?”

“We have no idea,” Felix answers.

At the same time, Aevalle’s hand drifts to the dark, dark scarf covering her throat.

For a moment, Solas is aware of nothing else—the sight of her fingers lingering there, her eyes wide with terror in a way he has not seen before. How her hand curls in the fabric just enough to tug at it, as if she cannot breathe.

He can hear nothing but the roar of the ocean in his ears. Can feel _nothing_ , has no thought except for— _no. Not this._

Her eyes snap up to his. Her hand drops to her side, quick like she’s been burned.

“Aevalle?” Felix asks—and Solas realises the room has gone silent, waiting for her to respond to a question someone has asked.

She is spared from having to answer by the sound of frantic movement on the stairs—one man shouting “Commander!” loudly, repeatedly, as he barrels down from the deck of the ship to the brig.

He barrels right through the others all crowded at the door, shoving his way past them without giving any sort of pause at this strange collection of people. “Commander,” he says again—not batting an eye at Aevalle, standing well outside her cell.

“Yes, Jim,” Cullen says, with the tone of someone with very little patience left to spare. “I am well aware we have been boarded, thank you. You may return to your post.”

“No, sir,” he pants. “It’s the storm—”

“And I am aware of the bloody storm! I thought I told you not to pester me about it again!”

“But sir—” he pauses to catch his breath.

“Lady Pentaghast!” someone else shouts, from further up the stairs.

“I imagined this rescue mission going off with a little less shouting,” Blackwall gripes as the sailor rushes down the stairs, making Sera guffaw.

“The magister,” the sailor shouts—then stops, presumably having noticed the crowd gathered at the door to the brig. Solas peers through the door, and sees the man standing there, holding his side. His hand covered in blood.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen says once they let the man through. “What happened?”

“The magister, he’s taken the lifeboat we prepared for Miss Lavellan. We tried to stop him, my lady, but he—he and his men are gone.”

“Good riddance,” Cullen says, as Vivienne moves to examine the man’s injury. “It’ll be a great deal easier to weather this storm without some smug magister aboard questioning my every move. Er, no offence.”

“We are _altus_ , not magisters,” Dorian corrects, automatically.

“Common mistake,” Felix says with a smile.

The sailor named Jim speaks up again. “But sir—”

“ _What_ , Jim.”

“Sir, it’s not a storm. There’s something in it, something _big_. I saw it moving, I swear.”

Cullen rolls his eyes. “Flames, man, do you really think—”

A great, horrible sound pierces the air—so loud and close that the wood around them begins to shudder, as if under the weight of some great force. The cry of some great beast, amplified by a wide spanse of ocean and the fullness of the moon.

They all stagger as the ship rocks under the force of it—except Aevalle, who tears through the gap in the crowd to bolt up the stairs.

Solas, the first to recover, follows after her.

“What the hell was that?” Sera shouts, voice high and panicked, as Solas runs right past her. “Where you going?”

Solas barrels up the stairs after her—and in the first hall he nearly loses her, sailors rushing out of rooms to the deck, to see what the matter is. But then he sees a flash of red duck into a room, and he shoves through the press of bodies until he can slip through the door himself.

“Aevalle,” he calls, stumbling into—what appears to be a supply room with fishing gear. It’s dark, and though there is only the lantern light from the hall there is plenty for elven eyes to see. Nets, great lines of rope—

And Aevalle, grabbing a simple harpoon from the rack on the wall. Meant for fishing, not for whaling, only a little longer than a spear—just after she tests the weight, she separates it from the length of rope it’s attached to with shaking hands.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” he breathes as she turns to face him. The lines of her face have hardened—the light of the hall casting her in stark shadows, broken into flashing fragments by the commotion in the hall.

Her grip on the weapon tightens. Unable to sign, she mouths the word, _Go_.

She is pleading with him—in spite of the hardness in her features, she still trembles.

“Not without you,” he answers. Surprising himself with how much he means it.

The creature’s cry hits the ship again—Solas is ready for it this time, steadying himself by gripping the ropes securing some heavy crates against the wall to his left. Aevalle bends her knees and shifts her weight with the movement of the ship—he watches as she moves, keeps herself upright, as simply as one floats on the surface of the ocean. And, as the ship still rolls, so dramatically that an unsecured crate begins to slide on the floor, she charges right past Solas and out the door.

“Aevalle!” he calls, but his shouting is lost in the aftershocks of the beast’s cry.

He chases after her as soon as he is able—and he is thankful that everyone in the hall is moving _up_ , not down, for the press of bodies seem to do more work in shoving him towards the deck than any effort on his own part. Though he cannot weave between them, as she must be for he catches no glimpse of her.

Until he reaches the deck, where the ship’s crew are spilling out to whipping wind and biting rain—and he sees her staring off the port bow, squinting into the heavy rain as it pelts against her. Her hair already slick against her scalp, her clothes clinging to her body, soaked through.

In the distance, where she is looking, he can make out a great, dark shape moving beneath the water. Coming right for them.

“Solas! Boss!”

Bull is at his back, shouting through the commotion—Solas watches the great Qunari flinch at lightning striking that great mass in the ocean, and then again at the roll of thunder that follows immediately after. “Solas,” he says again, when the sound has died down, “Our ride took off. All the lights went out and it went back under. No one was in it but—”

Solas curses. “The spirit became frightened,” he says, more to himself than to Bull. He glances over his shoulder, back to the stairs—the others have reached the deck, Varric trailing at the end with his rifle unslung from his shoulders. “Without a pilot it lacks the power to defend itself. It was reckless to ask for its help when it is so weak.”

“Uh… yeah, but I think maybe we have bigger problems—”

The creature screams again—and without the dampening effect of the wooden walls of the ship, its cry is equally _loud_ and unmistakable.

“Dragon!” one of the crew shouts, as the creature erupts from the sea to the port side of the ship.

But _that_ , Solas realises with horror, is no ordinary dragon.

He only catches a glimpse of her, but that is more than enough. The brilliant shine of her scales turned dark, slick with something that reeks of a _wrongness_ so strong his stomach rolls at the smell of it. Her eyes turned dull by illness, the plates that are meant to protect her gills loose, exposing skin that is sickly and pale. All the great fins and spines that should appear as if made of light, _should_ flow in the wind or the current with a grace of the finest silk; all tattered and broken, splotched with white and black marks that speak of disease.

“Archdemon!” someone shouts, before the wave created by the dragon’s violent breaching collides with the port side of the _Haven_.

The ship _buckles_ under the force of it, and rolls so hard to starboard that Solas thinks for one horrifying moment they will all be thrown to the waves. Some of the sailors _must_ —Solas slams onto the deck, flat on his front, so hard he barely has the presence of mind to grip at the rough surface of the boards for purchase.

He glances up in time to see a blast of raw spirit energy slam into the port rail—and for a moment the rail holds under the pressure. _Just_ long enough for the wave to barrel past them, for the ship to begin to correct itself, instead of flipping directly over.

As Solas scrambles to his feet, he catches a glimpse of Vivienne, clinging to a doorframe. Hand outstretched, the lines of her face cast in fierce determination.

The magic blows through the rail, but the ship rights itself—more or less. Listing slightly to port—Solas reaches out and feels the ocean rushing through the breach in the hull.

The dragon takes to the air with another cry—less piercing, as the air will not amplify it like the ocean—and as she soars over the ship with a single downward beat of her broad wings, her thrashing, many-finned tail collides with the central mast.

The great beam snaps, and Solas watches as it begins to fall—tracks its trajectory with his eyes, and notices Vivienne clear in its path.

He shouts a warning in the same moment a barrier snaps into place, high above the ship.

It goes up so quickly that it is _barely_ controlled—Solas feels an electric crackle in his mouth like a snap—but to his shock it holds as the mast hits it. Bends, certainly—lightning sparks across the sky and the rainwater pooling on the barrier breaks the light it casts down on them into ripples, as if they are underwater and looking up at the surface of the ocean.

“Any _day_ now!” he hears Dorian yell—straining with the effort to maintain the hastily conjured barrier.

Another blast of spirit energy from Vivienne, and the mast tumbles over the starboard side of the ship, clipping the railing before crashing into the ocean. Moments later, Solas has to duck his head as a wall of water slaps onto his back.

Looking for Aevalle, Solas finds the deck in utter chaos. The sailors are rushing everywhere—there are wounded already, who hurt themselves while the ship nearly rolled, and many are dragging them to the stern of the ship. There are lifeboats there—stored on the deck, they are not ready to launch yet.

Even if they were—they would be all too easy for the dragon to pick off, one by one, in the lifeboats.

“Can anyone see the blighted thing?” Cullen yells, his voice carrying over the roar of the storm and the activity of the sailors on deck. “Flames men, we have naval guns, _use them_!”

The dragon cries again— _much closer this time_ —and before anyone can do anything at all she lands on the bow, craning her long neck down and baring yellowed, black bile-ridden teeth at those below.

There is someone riding the dragon—a crack of sheet lightning overhead illuminates his features, twisted by rage and time and all the worst kinds of magic that can be pulled from the depths.

The ship _lurches_ , and Solas nearly tumbles forward again—but there is a crackle of great magic behind him as the ship _holds_ , against all odds. Though he can hear the boards beneath his feet straining under the pressure.

He turns—sees rain being pulled in by a great amount of force energy. Sees Vivienne and Dorian casting together, their faces twisted in concentration, as their magic provides the counterweight to the massive dragon perched on the ship’s bow.

Aevalle stands before the broken mast, her soaked hair whipping about herself in the wind, the borrowed harpoon held before her, tip pointing to the dragon and the monstrosity on her back.

“Thief!” comes a great, booming voice—and the _thing_ dismounts. “Pretender!”

He speaks like a man, but looks like—Solas cannot find an appropriate copy in the living world. He looks like a corpse stretched thin, grown over with barnacles and molluscs that were absorbed by his skin. Everything about him is twisted, gnarled, turned to a paleness that is unnatural and telling of disease in and of itself—crushed and twisted by depths that would not cease their _pulling_.

No one moves. Nearly everyone scrambled or fell behind Aevalle when the dragon landed—she stands before it utterly alone as the crew stumbles to their feet, uncertain. So very small before the monster and his dragon.

He approaches Aevalle, and she raises her harpoon—a defiance that gives him pause.

But the laugh that comes from his mouth has almost no semblance to what the word implies. It is hollow, and curling with a hate that makes Solas’ skin crawl.

Lightning fast, he reaches out and slaps the harpoon from her hand—it clatters to the deck as Aevalle scrambles backward, away from his unnatural reach. The claws that his hands have become tear into the scarf covering her neck, the thin fabric she wears under it, scattering them both to the howling winds.

And it is so, so subtle—such a small thing, next to a dragon and a monster made flesh. But there is a light between her and the creature; green and pulsing, like a frantic beating heart.

“Pitiful creature!” he snarls, advancing “Scurrying little _rattus_. You think you can take what is mine and disappear? That I will not hunt you down like the scum you are? I _own_ you! I took you from nothing and made you into a _weapon_ , and you think to threaten me with sticks and boats?”

She makes to dive for the spear, but a snap of the dragon’s tail keeps her away.

“I wonder what songs you sang with your pretty little voice to _seduce_ them to your service. What tales of woe you spun, pathetic thing that you are. Lying through your teeth with stolen power! And here you think to raise an army against me, and this is all you bring? A single ship. A wooden stick. A mere two mages, who cannot keep this ship afloat on their own.”

He reaches again, and this time she does not move away fast enough.

The monster grabs her by the neck and _lifts_ her, even as she grabs at the hand that holds her and kicks with her legs.

And from the way he lifts her, Solas can see her face—see her eyes wide with terror, her lips open and searching for air—

And the pulsing green light coming from her neck, under the monster’s palm.

“I will take back what is mine,” he snarls, and the light in Aevalle’s throat _burns_. Her face twists with a silent, tortured scream.

Solas is dimly aware of the others, behind him. Rushing forward where they can—Bull with little more than a piece of railing he’s pulled up, Cassandra and Blackwall with swords drawn, Cole with knives. He knows Dorian and Vivienne would help, but they are straining to keep the ship afloat, even as it threatens to split in half beneath them. Thinks that Sera has raised her pistols, Varric his rifle—that Cullen is rousing the sailors with a cry.

He hears only the roar of the ocean in his ears as he reaches down into the tempest that has been building within him for days.

Solas raises a hand, and the rain at the monster’s back turns to a thousand needles of ice.

They only stagger him—the twisted nature of his body its own natural armor—but it is enough to make him stumble. For his grip on Aevalle to loosen.

She crashes to the deck—rolling instinctively away when he reaches for her again. A wall of ice rises from the deck to block his hand, and the Elder One recoils with a furious snarl.

Aevalle snatches up her harpoon from the deck and scrambles backwards, away from the snapping jaws of the dragon.

The dragon launches itself after her—and the ship is thrown off balance by its sudden movement. The others stumble, yelling, while Dorian and Vivienne adjust. Solas hears shots fired, and curses as they miss their mark by a wide margin.

Bull reaches Aevalle first—and he throws himself against the dragon’s jaw, running full-tilt, so the creature’s jaws clamp down on air and not her leg. Aevalle lunges forward and spears the point of her harpoon into the creature’s eye—and she screams, but with a single thrash of her mighty head throws them both off before Aevalle can drive it deeper.

They both tumble head over heel back towards the others. Blackwall and Cassandra pull Bull to his feet, and Felix reaches for Aevalle, yanking her away from the dragon’s sweeping tail by her arms. The ship lurches _again_ —and he hears Dorian and Vivienne cry out as they try to balance it again.

The ship groans. Several boards beneath Solas’ feet break clean in half.

The dragon rears her head, and lets out an explosive burst of flame. Varric yells a warning—Bull, Cassandra and Blackwall dive to one side, while Aevalle yanks hard on Felix, and they roll together to the port rail, the flames narrowly missing their backs.

Solas pulls at the ocean, and a wave crashes over the ship from the port side—and though the ship nearly rolls once more, the dragon’s flame is extinguished before it can reach the others.

Everyone is knocked off their feet by the wave—scatted about the deck, they cough as they reach for their weapons. At the port rail, Felix helps Aevalle climb to her feet, even as she silently urges him to get back.

“Solas!” Vivienne yells in warning.

Solas barely brings up the barrier in time. A bolt of electricity crashes against it, disperses all across its surface—Solas has to curl his barrier around it, pour precious mana and concentration into redirecting it, keeping it from the rainwater pooling on the deck.

It is an excellent distraction—when Solas returns his attention to the battle, another bolt of lightning is heading right for Aevalle.

It happens so quickly—in the span of one heartbeat, Felix is in between her and the magic, shielding her with his body. With a weak flare of power, a joke of a barrier—it gives the instant it is hit, and Felix takes the full force of the lightning strike to his back.

The Tevinter _altus_ tumbles—falls like a child’s doll, lightning coursing through his body. But there is still consciousness, Solas realises—the energy is converted, as if by reflex, into something more harmless, and it does not discharge but dissipate from Felix’s body.

He rolls, stops, and is impossibly still. Aevalle stares at him with impossibly wide eyes—the green light in her neck flares bright, and her lips part.

“Aevalle,” Dorian yells, “no!”

That is the only warning Solas gets.

The barrier he throws up is—understandably rushed. Between Aevalle and the crew, scattered close to the stern of the ship. He staggers with the sheer will required to throw it up—it surges into place like the crash of a wave, and what he must pull from the ocean to strengthen it makes his blood rush, his head spin.

Half a heartbeat later, Aevalle _screams_.

Even muffled by his barrier, the sound of it crushes his heart. He staggers under the agony of it—the raw despair carried by the sound is almost a battering ram against his own resolve, and it takes all the will he has to give to keep the barrier up, to stop himself from simply clasping his hands over his eyes and weeping, letting her voice draw his own suffering out of him.

It is not a scream—it is the agony of a broken heart, the feeling of a heart being ripped from a chest. Pain made into a sound so physical that it can tear flesh and make one weep blood.

All around him, the others are clasping their hands over their ears, trying to block it out. Unharmed by it, but far from unaffected.

Ahead, the monster and his dragon reel back under the barrage. The Elder One draws back, a barrier thrown hastily over himself, and he barely climbs onto the dragon’s leg before she takes off—her own screams of pain and rage drowned out utterly by Aevalle.

She disappears into the night, and Aevalle’s cries falter. She stumbles to Felix, and Solas’ barrier falls, allowing her to pass.

When Solas reaches her, she has rolled Felix onto his back—shaking him furiously, her hands curling in his clothing.

“What the fuck was that?” Varric yells.

Felix’s face is lit by the flicker of green light pouring from Aevalle’s neck—and Solas cannot help but look at _her_ instead, at the gap in her flesh, the pulsing green light nestled inside. There is a trickle of blood pouring from it, down over her collar bone, and the flesh surrounding it is raw, bloodied.

Felix coughs, and his eyes open, slowly. Aevalle opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again so hard her teeth clack together.

The others are gathering around, slowly—not the sailors, Solas notes, but the ones Aevalle calls her friends. They are mostly staring at her.

“That… _thing_ ,” Sera manages, “put _that_ , in your _neck_? _Why?_ ”

“ _Fastevas_.” Dorian stumbles to his knees next to Felix. He’s taken a blow to the head, although Solas doesn’t know where he got it from. “That was—stupid of you, Felix. Utterly, utterly _stupid._ I’ll kill you myself, after we fix you up.”

Felix attempts a smile. Aevalle frantically grabs at Solas’ clothing instead.

 _Help him_ , she signs, in between pulling at his shirt. _Help my friend, please._

“…’Valle,” Felix manages, in between shaking breaths. He tries to touch her arm to comfort her, but movement seems to be beyond him. “… dead man anyway.”

“We need to get him in the water,” Solas says, trying to slow Aevalle as she claws at him. “ _Lethallan_. I don’t have the strength to heal him unless he’s submerged.”

“And you!” Sera says. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her pointing her finger at him. “You’re a bloody—shite, no wonder you’re so damn _elfy_.”

There is a flash of sheet lightning off the port bow. “It’s coming around!” Cullen yells. “Men, ready the guns! Be of some blasted use this time around!”

“Cullen,” Cassandra says, “we need to get the lifeboats afloat. The ship will not survive another attack.”

“We’ll be easier targets in the lifeboats than we are now!”

Aevalle stills.

Cole, standing just behind Solas, says with the lilt that mimics a Dalish brogue Solas has only heard in one ill-timed dream, “ _He’s after me_.”

“No,” Solas says. It’s almost a plea.

“Absolutely not,” Dorian joins in a heartbeat later. “Aevalle we didn’t go through all this just to hand you back to that— _thing_ on a silver platter.”

 _I can draw him away_ , she signs. Her hands only shaking a little. _He will follow me and you can escape._

“Follow you?” Bull parrots, incredulous. “In what?”

“Shit, Drifter.” Varric hoists his gun over his shoulder with a heavy sigh. “You can’t outrun that thing in a lifeboat!”

 _I don’t need one_ , she signs.

It’s almost impossible to spot, in the dark, in the howling wind and pelting rain—but there’s a crash of lightning in the distance again, and Solas sees the glitter of dark, dark scales beginning to emerge on her face. Like so many freckles, scattered across her skin.

Delicate lines appearing at the base of her neck, where before there was only smooth flesh.

“No,” Solas says, louder this time.

Any further protests are drowned out by the sound of the dragon’s cry—and the beating of mighty, wretched wings rapidly approaching from behind them,

Aevalle stands and begins to run in one fluid motion—Solas reaches for her, but his fingers only brush the back of one druffalo skin wrapped heel.

“Stop her!” Cassandra yells.

But Aevalle is fast, her bare toes finding easy purchase on the deck as the ship is thrown about by the storm. She crosses the deck with ease, climbs the starboard rail—

She looks back, once. Standing on the rail, harpoon in hand. Looks right at Solas and raises one hand to her chin, thumb extended, then exposes her palm to him.

Then there are wingbeats at Solas’ back, and she turns and dives into the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out this absolutely gorgeous drawing of Victorian Artist Solas by Destiny Apostacy! It's beautiful! And my favourite colour!!!](http://destinyapostasy.tumblr.com/post/145076807107/so-ive-been-meaning-to-draw-something-from)
> 
> I'm not dead, just got a whole lot of new responsibilities a work, training a new person, aaaannndddd my pay hasn't gone up yet. ;_;


	11. Lost in the Storm

In the moments that follow Aevalle leaping from the ship, Solas is aware of nothing.

Not even his own movement—for he _must_ have leapt to his feet, as he is standing. He must have cried out, for his throat is strained, his mouth open. And he must have tried to follow her, because Bull is holding him back, hands on his arms, fingers digging in to keep him in place.

Absurd, that she thinks she can outswim a dragon. Ridiculous, self-sacrificing—

But he has a stray thought, and it sinks to the pit of his stomach like so many stones. _She doesn’t have to outswim it at all._

The dragon roars, realising that Aevalle has left the ship entirely. Loud enough to jolt Solas back to himself; loud enough to snap the world out of its painful focus on the place she last stood.

With a great beat of her battered wings, the dragon dives into the water.

“She’s _gone_ , Solas,” Bull is shouting, and Solas realises he is still struggling. “We need to get out of here while we can.”

Solas wants to accuse Bull of blindly following orders. To snap at him and call him every foul thing Solas knows—and to end it all with a blast of ice to the hand that won’t let go.

But the Qunari’s breaths are as ragged as his own.

He waits, just breathing, for the dragon to rise from the water again. Holding her limp form between diseased teeth—the monster on her back crying out in victory as he takes his prize from her lifeless body.

He waits. _And waits_.

“Stupid girl,” Dorian is cursing, behind him. Voice shaking, the breaths between his words almost like sobs.

Someone calls Bull to help with the lifeboats, and he lets Solas go. Even as the Qunari leaves, he does not have the strength to turn back—he could follow, he knows. There is still a moon behind those clouds—the deep is still full of power for him to take.

Behind him, Felix makes a small cry of pain. He hesitates.

And then Cole is at his side; the only sign of his presence the battering rain on the leather of his hat.

“You didn’t _make_ her promise,” the spirit whispers. “But she did. _They won’t let me go, but they’ll drown—Bull’s knife in my belt._ Just a shirt, then. Just an eel. It’s a little bigger, now.”

He closes his eyes.

“You can’t help her now,” Cole says, softly. “She’s too far. But you can help her friend.”

With a curse at his own helplessness, Solas turns on his heel and abandons Aevalle to her fate.

 

In the early hours of the morning, light just beginning to break in a single long line across the horizon, they drag the overcrowded lifeboats ashore an unfamiliar island.

The storm moved on sometime in the night, but everyone is thoroughly soaked—not just from rain, but from sitting in ocean water nearly all the night. No amount of bailing able to keep the sea water out of the low-floating boats.

An advantage certainly for healing—Solas was busy for hours with Felix alone, coaxing glittering seawater all up and down his body, feeling for the long, jagged lines of internal damage done by the lightning. Whispering, “Relax,” over and over. After he had done what he could, then he hopped from lifeboat to lifeboat, gently pulling healing water over open wounds and broken legs aplenty. Closing a few distant eyes that he could not reach in time.

He expected questions—accusations, even. But no one spoke much; everyone listened for wingbeats, and for the piercing cry of the blighted dragon.

None came.

As light begins to gather along the horizon, and the waterlogged boats are overturned and propped on oars for makeshift shelter, it is all Solas can do to just _stand_. A ringing in his ears, a numbness that started in the tips of his fingers, and a heavy, heavy heart—staring out at the thin line of light on the horizon as it grows, turning the sky from black to a soft, warm yellow.

Solas stands there for—some time. Staring, watching the light turn the underbellies of pale, pale clouds a delicate gold. Watching the dawn rise, deep navy giving way to soft purples, to delicate blue.

He wonders why no one has come to speak to him—there is significant movement in the temporary camp behind him, people moving and helping in spite of exhaustion while he stands, utterly still, and stares at the sky reflected back in the ocean.

It comes to him, at length, what everyone else has so quickly realised: _he is grieving_. They are giving him space.

“Chuckles.”

At the interruption of his thoughts, he takes in a sudden, jarring breath, and tears his gaze away from the water.

Varric is holding out an ornate silver flask, uncapped. The weariness on his face drawing more lines there than Solas remembers seeing before.

Solas, for his part, stares rather helplessly at the flask, for much longer than is probably polite.

Eventually, Varric sighs. With a shrug, he mutters, “Suit yourself,” before taking a long swig. Wincing at the bite of whatever’s inside, he screws the lid back on, looking out at the horizon.

Solas keeps expecting some attempt at comfort— _you did what you could_. Perhaps an apology for keeping Solas from rushing after her; although it was Bull who grabbed his arms and held him still until the dragon sailed over the ship, her wingbeats lost in the storm.

Instead, Varric says with a rough voice, “You know.” Pauses to clear his throat. “You know, there’s this Dalish girl I know. Used to tell me stories.”

Solas swallows, and finds his throat too dry to speak.

“And it’s…” his voice fades. When Solas looks at Varric again, the dwarf’s gaze is distant. His eyes suspiciously glistening.

Solas knows the stories. Better than Varric’s Dalish girl, he is certain. They have never offered him comfort.

Varric sighs, and his shoulders slump. When he manages to speak again, he sounds strangely defeated. “They were nice stories.”

Behind them, Sera is arguing with Cassandra.

“Jus’ one boat!” she yells, interrupting the quiet. “You don’t need it! And we’ll bring it back, as soon as we go get Aevalle!”

When Solas turns, he realises she is crying. Her eyes are so red and puffy he can see it from a respectable distance away. She tries to say something more, but the words are coming out as more babbling sob than anything else—and the Seeker does not answer her, though Solas can see the impassivity of her expression cracking the longer Sera goes on.

Blackwall approaches Sera from behind, with a kind word that Solas cannot hear and a gentle hand on her shoulder. She whirls with a curse and storms off down the beach. Blackwall follows after, and Cassandra stares after them.

Her face twists, and she ducks her head. Lips forming the hard shapes of a curse, muffled by the sound of the sea at Solas’ back.

He can feel it _pulling_. Even with his back turned to it. Always pulling—even soaked to the bone, drained dry and left with _nothing_ , only the endless tug of his mistakes on his heart. All the beautiful things that, in trying to save them, he has only allowed to be thrown against the rocks. Crushed to oblivion by an uncaring sea.

One more to add to the pile, he thinks, lip curling.

“Chuckles?” Varric asks as Solas starts walking.

Solas does not acknowledge him—or anyone else he passes. He leaves the soft sand of the beach and makes his way into rougher earth, thick trees and grass, stones that bite against his skin. He walks until the sound of the camp is a dull buzz, but the island is not large enough for him to escape the ocean. Not truly—it’s a buzz in his ears, an echo of his heartbeat.

He stumbles over the half-rotten root of a fallen tree—catches himself on the rough bark of another. It bites into his hands as he scrapes his palm across it in the instinctual drive to stay upright. Even as his legs give out, the utter exhaustion of his body finally catching up with him.

He sits with his back to the tree and stares at the blood welling up in the center of his palm. The dirt and flaked off fragments of bark that have become lodged there. Some distant part of him is aware he should return to the water, clean and heal it before it becomes infected.

Of all things, he remembers a small cut on her face. Healing that, under the green light of the wildlife around them. Of holding her hand— _I do not want to lose you in the dark_ _again_.

And that is when the sob escapes him—and the next, and the _next_ , all in a broken, tortured rush.

 

Wisdom catches him when he falls asleep. As it always does, when he is thinking least of what is wise.

“My friend,” it says. Its presence curls around his sleeping consciousness—and while the steady warmth of its aura has often been a comfort to him, in this dream as in others he knows he does not deserve it.

It is changing the dream around him—while he has only the desire for emptiness, for an absence of every kind and gentle thing that he does not deserve, the spirit gives him sunlight. Lying on his back in a field of flowers, its form a lap to lay his head in, fingers for it to run over his scalp.

No ocean scene between them, this time. No gentle tide, no protected cove. Even Wisdom can tell that, for once, he wants nothing to do with it.

“She was real,” he breathes. “She was real and I—”

Even in the dream, his voice breaks. He closes his eyes and tries to collect his thoughts. But they are scattered by the memory of another dream, surrounded by furs and sailcloth and _her._ The memory of waking, and thinking that it might be real. Realising, with her lips on his, that it could be, if he only let it.

“What does it mean,” Wisdom wonders, “that one of them has affected you so?”

His answering laugh is bitter. He stands, pulling away from the comfort of the spirit’s touch. “What does it matter?” he parrots back, his expression twisting into a snarl, “When I have ruined the brightest thing this world has to offer? When I am responsible for—for the destruction of her home, for taking what gifts she might have had and twisting them so that they render her mute? And—”

_And ultimately, her death._

He chokes on the words. Unable to speak them, even in dreaming.

Wisdom hums. It is the sound of a finger on the rim of a crystal glass.

“You are so _certain_ these days,” it says. And its voice is oddly amused, though he has never known this spirit to be callous. “Always deciding for yourself the truth of things, before you have seen all this world has to offer.”

He scowls back at the spirit. His mouth open—about to berate it for lecturing him on this, _again_. But there is an amused curl to its features, a magician’s secret smile, and he finds the words slipping away before he can speak them.

“Do you hear that?” it asks. “I think someone’s calling you.”

 

Chuckles doesn’t take the whiskey Varric offers him, but Dorian certainly does.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he curses after he drinks. Peers into the flask with one eye open. “What _is_ this? Takes like the ass end of a horse.”

Beside him, Felix—lying on his back and _supposed_ to be sleeping—mutters, “Just give it back if you don’t like it, Dorian. No need to be rude.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Dorian takes another swig, then makes an equally disgusted face. “It’s not rude if it’s the truth.”

_No such thing as a wake without bad liquor_ , Varric thinks. Does not say, because—well. It’s a poor excuse for a memorial. A few of the people who called her their friend crammed together on a beach, nursing wounds and watching the sun rise. And with only a few clouds scattered across an otherwise clear sky, the weather’s too damn _cheerful_ for the kind of numb silence that’s settled over everyone since they dragged the boats ashore. There are birds in the trees behind them singing away, as if their friend hadn’t leapt off a sinking ship in a storm to draw a dragon away from them.

He winces at that thought. So, the Elder One turned out to be Corypheus, of all people. Oh, he has a hell of a letter to write when they get back—or to anywhere that has a pen and paper. _Dear Hawke: We fucked up and there’s a body count. Number one is that feisty Dalish girl I wrote you about last time._

His vision is a little blurry, then. Dorian hands him back the flask, and he takes a long, slow swig.

He’s never been one for public grief—and the guilt is too raw to really tackle right this second. Not to mention there’s something that’s been bothering him (and if he’ll be honest it’s his real reason for sitting here, offering a drink to these two Tevinter mages). “Dorian,” he says, “right before Drifter did her… uh, scream thing. You—”

Dorian takes the flask back. “I’m going to need a little more of this for _that_ explanation,” he interrupts.

Before Dorian can drink, they hear yelling coming up the beach.

Varric thinks for a second that it’s Sera, found someone else to scream at—but it’s coming from the opposite direction, he realises. One of the sailors, he sees when he pokes his head around the lifeboat. A Tal-Vashoth with a clear voice that sounds somewhat frantic.

“Lady Pentaghast!” she’s yelling, running full-tilt up the beach. “Mister Solas! Madame Vivienne—”

She finds Cassandra first—the Seeker ducks out from under one of the lifeboats, a curious frown on her face. “What is it?” she asks.

The sailor is still halfway up the beach, and does not stop running. “We found her!” she yells. “She’s—well, you have to see it, but we found her!”

“Found _who_?” Cassandra calls back.

Varric doesn’t think he can take the obvious _hope_ in her voice. How poorly masked it is. Because there’s no way, he thinks, not when they floated all night in the other direction—

 “Miss Lavellan, my Lady! She’s washed ashore! But she’s hurt, bad!”

The makeshift camp explodes in a flurry of movement.

“Get Solas!” Cassandra yells, while at the same time several people start shouting that he’s gone off into the forest.

Dorian takes a generous swig from the flask, swallows, curses rather colourfully at it, then thrusts it back into Varric’s hands as he launches to his feet.

Varric only pauses to help Felix to his feet—and then the man is leaning on him rather awkwardly, so it’s good that the source of all the commotion comes to them instead of the other way around.

Solas stumbles out of the trees right about the time Cullen appears around the bend in the beach, Aevalle in his arms.

It strikes Varric that this is the _second_ time he’s seen her, unconscious and prone in someone’s arms.

First time she’s had scales though.

He thinks it’s a trick of the light, at first—that maybe there’s something dark covering her. But as Cullen draws closer, running as fast as he can while carrying her, the sunlight catches them and they gleam with the brilliance of a thousand lapis stones, the lines of her _vallaslin_ turned to bright flashes of polished bronze. It looks like armour, sweeping up her body, a delicate fin sprouting from her back, tapering off under her arms and at her face, where they dot her skin more like freckles.

And perhaps more telling, where once she had legs now she has a tail, fins like a glittering silk sheet trailing in the wind. Two long gashes all along the side, blood dripping down to the sand.

“Well, shit,” Varric says.

Dorian reaches Cullen first.

“She’s not breathing,” the commander says between gasping for breath. Must have run an awful long way for Curly to be so out of breath.

Dorian yells, “Get her in the water you idiot!”

By the time Varric and Felix stumble rather awkwardly into the water, Solas is kneeling at Aevalle’s side as she lies in the water— _utterly still_. She bobs with the gentle pull of the tide in the little protected bay—her face above the water, and nothing else. Dorian holds her while Solas draws a glittering current of water over her with his hands and Cullen stands nearby, running a hand through his hair.

That strange green light still pulses from her neck—Varric can see it even clearer in the daylight. It’s almost like a physical thing, lodged between an ugly gash in her skin. Dried blood flakes off the edges of it to float away in the tide.

Beneath, on either side of her neck, are delicate gills. Utterly unmoving.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” Solas whispers, over and over. Among other things—Varric doesn’t understand any of them, but the tremble in the artist’s voice breaks his heart nonetheless.

Varric hears the splash of more people wading into the water—Sera and Blackwall, Bull and Cassandra, Vivienne, Cole, one by one, until they are all surrounding her. Giving Solas the space to work, with exhaustion and worry making his limbs tremble.

The wounds on her tail close, slowly. No one dares to breathe.

Then her eyes snap open—her pupils blown into wide dark circles—and her gills flutter as her mouth opens, gaping. She launches herself from the water and _breathes_ , reaching out wildly with trembling limbs.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” Solas says. “It’s alright. We have you.”

She grabs a fistful of Solas’ shirt, and stops. She blinks, staring up at him as he takes her shoulders in hand and steadies her, and Varric watches her eyes begin to shift to something a little more like he’s used to seeing—until she blinks and _there they are_ , brilliant green.

Solas smiles at her.

She looks around then, at the people who have gathered—and as she does, Varric watches as the scales all over her body begin to slip away, fading back into her flesh. As her gills become only smooth lines, then unbroken copper skin.

By the time she has turned all the way around the circle of her friends and her gaze rests on Varric, Dorian has taken his shirt off and thrown it around her shoulders to cover her. Utterly naked as the day Varric first saw her, and not a trace of a scale or fin or gill on her.

Though the mark remains—pulsing, nestled in the skin of her neck.

She looks like she’s about to cry.

_You’re all safe_ , she signs, finally smiling.

“Thanks to you,” Cassandra says. Although there is still significant shock on her features.

“Wait,” Sera interrupts, before anyone else can speak. “Could you _always_ do that?”

Aevalle’s smile fades. She glances down, momentarily, before looking up again and nodding, _yes_.

Her hands fidget in her lap.

“Boss,” the Qunari says, with a lopsided grin, “that was the most _badass_ thing I have ever seen. You just _stood_ in front of that dragon with _just a spear_ —”

“Oh no,” Dorian interrupts, “no, you will _not_ encourage this behaviour. How many times do I have to rush in, thinking you’ve gone off to your death because of some self-sacrificing notion you’ve planted in your head, only to have to waltz up with no more than a _how do you do_ , bleeding from literally everywhere—”

“Dorian,” Felix chides, though it is entirely too fond to be _true_ scolding. “What does it matter? We’re all safe now.”

“But how?” Cassandra asks. “How did you survive?”

A frown passes over Aevalle’s features then—as if she herself is trying to recall exactly _what_ happened.

“I think our questions can wait until Aevalle is a bit more comfortable,” Solas says. “Perhaps we can find something more for her to wear than just Dorian’s shirt.”

Aevalle rolls her eyes. _You people are so scared of tits_ , she signs, exasperated, which makes Sera break out into a fit of giggles that goes on for far, far longer than it should.

Cole takes Felix then, and Varric is free to watch Solas help Aevalle stand. To watch Dorian help her walk—and to see Solas’ hand fall from the small of her back, as she is led away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mermaid chapter everyone!!!! Now you can finally all stop sassing me about it, and start sassing me about how vague I am about literally everything else in this fic
> 
> Apologies to [valyrias](http://unseeliequeens.tumblr.com/), who was extremely clear on her expectations for this chapter. But I have never laughed so hard to see 27 messages in my tumblr inbox immediately after a comment saying, essentially, "Meet me in the Pit"
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  when are they going to kiss again  
> i want another kiss  
> a goodbye kiss  
> a 'dont u dare leave to sacrifice yourself' kiss  
> .... which i guess is also technically a goodbye kiss
> 
> (later)  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  dONT YOU :D ME
> 
> **playwithdinos**  
>  :D
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  :D MEANS 'THE ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION IS BOTH'


	12. Herald

It takes some time before they can start telling the story to get everyone settled—Aevalle winds up with Vivienne’s dress on, the First Enchanter sitting on driftwood in her underdress with the sort of poise reserved for afternoon tea. Aevalle’s too short for the garment by far, and as she sits the skirts of the thing puff up around her more like a blanket.

Sitting next to her, Solas cannot help glancing at the long scar on her neck. Covered now, Dorian’s shirt sleeve ripped up for the purpose. So light in colour that, sometimes, Solas thinks he can just make out the glow of the item in her throat.

She starts right at the heart of the matter—as Solas suspected she would, once asked a direct enough question.

 _He calls himself Corypheus,_ Aevalle explains, about the creature who attacked her. _He put this thing in my neck_. _I don’t know what it is, or why he did it. I don’t know what he wants. All I know is that he thinks the Inquisition is in his way, and that’s why he…_

She falters. Her hands curl in on themselves, mid gesture, and she bites her lip.

The sun is slipping lower, touching the leaves on the trees at their backs. Casting strange shadows all along the beach—her face is lit and darkened in alternating fragments, leaves and hair alike pulled by the gentle breeze.

Eventually, Dorian reaches over and puts a hand on her knee. It seems to steady her, and she continues—not quite looking at any of them as she does.

_That’s why he needed me. He told me he wanted to send a message—sink the Justinia, and kill Cullen and leave his body for the Inquisition to find._

“But you didn’t kill him,” Cassandra says.

Aevalle glances at Cullen. He only smiles steadily in answer.

_I tried to run. I didn’t get very far._

Solas, sitting on one side of her, finds his gaze dropping to her back. To the pale scars cutting through the lines of _vallaslin_ , somewhere under the layers of Vivienne’s petticoat.

Aevalle notices. She inclines her head in silent thanks, when his eyes meet hers again.

_I was… punished. For failing him. And then he left me for dead. Or… wanted me to think that I’d escaped again. I don’t remember much, just swimming as far as I could, until I couldn’t swim anymore. And then I woke up, and I was at Seahold._

“Shit, Drifter,” Varric says. “You stuck around in the place you knew this… crazy self-proclaimed cult leader wants to blow up? When half of us thought you’d sunk the ship? When you _actually did_? That’s just…”

“You forget, darling,” Vivienne interrupts, “that Seahold is the best defended fortress in the world. If anywhere is safe from that monstrosity, that would be it.”

 _I’d already tried running. And I thought, if he was already after the Inquisition, being there couldn’t make it any worse. But if I joined Dorian in Kirkwall, he would have ripped apart the whole city to find me_.

“And in the end he sent Alexius to get you out of the keep,” Cullen says. “I think that might imply he cannot breach Seahold’s defences at this point, though I cannot imagine why he simply does not ram his dragon headlong into the walls.”

 _Your guess is as good as mine_ , Aevalle signs.

“Wait,” Sera interrupts, gesturing between her, Dorian at her side, and then Felix at his. “How you two figure in this?”

“Yeah.” Bull leans forward, resting a hand on his knee. His expression as amicable as always, but his eye narrowed ever so slightly. “How do you two go from being sons of magisters on your sprawling estates to… Well, shipwrecked like the rest of us.”

Varric chimes in, “Not to mention you didn’t look all that shocked at the voice thing. Or the… fins thing.”

“Yeah!” Sera says. “How come you’re like a mermaid or whatever? That’s not like a _thing_ , is it? Like did that barnacle monster guy do that to you too or the rock in your neck or—”

Aevalle smiles with such patience and warmth. Sera snaps her jaw shut, blushing furiously.

“Ah,” Dorian says, adjusting his jacket about himself. “Of course you’re _curious_ about us, mysterious saviours from the north that we are.”

He looks as if he is about to launch into some over-embellished tirade. Aevalle slaps his knee, affectionately, and he settles for glaring at her instead.

“We thought,” Felix starts—leaning on Dorian, his complexion still awfully pale. “We thought my father bought her to be my bodyguard, at first.”

He pauses and closes his eyes. Dorian clasps his hand over his friend’s knee.

Aevalle bites her lip.

“Forgive me, Felix,” Dorian says, with a smile that nearly hides the tension in his voice. “I believe I tell it a little better than you.”

So he launches into the story. Aevalle argues some details with him, and there seem to be events he glosses over entirely for the sake of company present—Aevalle makes fists in her clothing, once or twice, and each time Solas thinks of reaching over, taking a hand and twining his fingers with hers.

But then he thinks of what has been done to her, he hesitates—so long that it is Dorian who soothes her with a hand on her knee or her shoulder. A warm, affectionate grip that is more than telling of what he does not say; how much precisely all three have been through together.

 

The breeze coming off the Alexius vineyards is not _precisely_ how Dorian remembers it. Sweeter on the nose, perhaps—although he attributes that more to the peach trees in the garden, finally old enough this summer to start producing fruit. Imported from Par Vollen, at astronomical cost, the head gardener’s been tearing his hair out over them for years.

As he stands on the balcony, closes his eyes and _breathes_ , there are slaves at his back, depositing his belongings so silently that he honestly forgets about them.

“Why did I ever leave?” he wonders aloud. Opening his eyes to sunset over the property—the smell of grapes, of peaches and exotic fruits he can’t name.

“You know,” comes a familiar voice from behind him, “I asked myself the same thing.”

Dorian turns a little too quickly with a laugh that is perhaps a little too loud. “Felix!”

Felix is standing just inside the room, and—Dorian thinks he looks remarkably _healthy_ , doesn’t he? He can’t help but look _twice_ , just to be sure. Can’t help it, as he crosses the room and embraces his only friend, but to gauge the strength of Felix’s limbs. As he grips Felix’s arms and takes a step back to look at him, he finds the colour of his friend’s skin as it has always been—a little darker, as if he has recently spent many hours in the sun instead of in his rooms, pouring over mathematics textbooks.

There are dark shadows under his eyes, however. And this close, Felix’s smile is strained with grief, the line of his shoulders a little too straight, to be greeting a friend with.

The slaves slip out of the doorway—silent and unnoticed—as he spends far too much time looking at his friend for the evidence of what he knows to be true.

“My condolences,” Dorian says, softly. “I am sorry about your mother.”

Felix clears his throat. He looks as if he is about to say several things, but then decides simply on, “Thank you. She is… she is missed.”

“I see her peach trees are finally bearing fruit. Smell them, rather—I think we might have to sample a few, before the kitchens get them all.”

Felix laughs—softer than normal. “I’ll admit, I’ve already stolen more than my fair share. They’re… worth the wait.”

Dorian is polite enough to pretend there is no hitch in his friend’s voice. He begins to lead Felix to the balcony, so they may sit and talk there, when he notices someone standing in the doorway.

He turns, frowning—and there is an elf standing there, completely still. Staring at some fixed point in the room that Dorian doesn’t think is particularly fascinating. Expression hard as stone, her head shaved nearly to the scalp, a black-brown fuzz poking through her copper skin. Unremarkably dressed in every way—a trim fitted shirt and trousers in the Alexius colours, as any of the household slaves would.

But there are bandages wrapped around her neck, instead of a slave’s collar. Not to mention those markings on her cheeks—dark blue branches curving over her high cheekbones and into her hairline.

Felix catches him staring. “Ah,” he says. Then, to the elf, “You can come sit, if you like. I think you’ve been standing all day.”

She does not give a single hint she’s heard him. But she crosses the threshold into the room, and closes the door behind her.

“My new… _shadow_ ,” Felix explains as they pass onto the balcony. She follows, the only sound of her doing so the tapping of her bare feet on carpet, then stone. “Father showed up unannounced with her a week ago. Said that she’s my bodyguard, and I’m not to be anywhere without her.”

“Bodyguard?” Dorian sends her another curious glance as he and Felix sit at the balcony’s little table. She stands off to the side, and does not take Felix’s offer to join them even when he gestures at the empty chair. “A touch excessive, don’t you think?”

She _does_ stare right at Dorian as he scrutinizes her. With a hardness in her green eyes that is downright unnerving—would get her a beating, from others of his rank.

But Felix doesn’t seem bothered by it, so he decides not to mention it.

“A touch _late_ ,” Felix corrects, pouring chilled wine from the decanter already on the table.

Dorian tries to smile, but the remark is a little too on the nose for that. He hides his discomfort by ducking his head and accepting the wine glass.

“So,” Felix prompts. Changing the subject with a smile that is simply not as easy, as all of his used to be. “How was your visit home? How is your family?”

“Ah,” Dorian replies. Then pauses to take a long, long drink.

 

“Don’t you think it’s odd?”

Dorian finds it impossible to tear his gaze from the practice ring below. They have a perfect view from the balcony Felix has insisted they take breakfast at, even though it’s on the wrong side of the property to fully enjoy the morning sun. “Hm?”

Felix’s bodyguard is not with them, because she is in the practice ring with the guards. _Training_ , apparently. Though it doesn’t look much like it to him.

They have not permitted her to use weapons, and her sparring partner is coming at her with a staff.

She is quick on her feet, certainly. She’s only taken a few blows as she failed to get out of the way in time—and Felix has nearly risen from his chair at the sight of each one. Only stopped by the sight of her rolling or slipping out of reach again, nursing whatever new injury she’s obtained. The human she is sparring with is nearly double her size, and she seems to be having only a little trouble evading him.

“I know what those markings mean—she’s _Dalish_.”

Dorian hums thoughtfully—watching her slip under the man’s reach and dance out of range of his staff, panting for breath. Her hair has grown out into thick, waving curls now—not long enough to tie back, but certainly enough she has to shove them back from her eyes, on occasion.

“Don’t see too many of those in the Imperium,” Dorian agrees. “Are you certain? Could be a previous master liked the _aesthetic_. It was very fashionable for a while.”

There is something odd in Felix’s expression, then. Almost like it hardens. Dorian… doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

Then there is cursing from the ring—and it quickly turns to frantic yelling.

By the time Dorian turns, Felix’s new bodyguard has disarmed her partner, pinned him beneath her, and is pushing the staff flat against his neck as he claws at her, his nails drawing blood in her arms as he tries to get her to let go.

Felix is out of his chair and racing towards the stairs, without skipping a beat.

“ _Fastevas_ ,” Dorian mutters, as he gets up to follow.

By the time Felix storms into the practise ring, sand kicking up about him and Dorian hot on his heels, three of the house Alexius guards have managed to drag the girl off her sparring partner. He wheezes on the ground, rolling about, as two of the guards hold her by either arm.

The third slaps her, open palm, right across her face.

She reels back from the force of it—Dorian _winces_ at the sound it makes, at the way her whole body crumples, follows the blow.

But when she lifts her head, it’s to spit in his face.

Felix has to yell “ _Enough_ ,” twice, before the guard stops beating her.

 

Later, Dorian stands in the doorway holding a tray full of ice and water he’s absconded from a slave in the hall, watching as Felix offers her a pot of salve.

“This will help with the swelling.”

Felix doesn’t know he’s standing there—watching from the shadow of the hall just outside Felix’s room. The girl is sitting on a chair, ignoring what Felix holds out for her and instead staring at him with a look of complete and utter loathing. Brows furrowed, lip curling.

Felix sighs. He places the salve on the table, then more or less drops into the chair opposite hers.

She still does not move. Her battered face and bloodied nose the only thing in the room that is not precise, clean, pristine, and she seems intent on leaving it that way.

When the silence stretches on far too long, Felix speaks up. “I don’t know who owned you last, but I won’t—”

She shoves her chair back from the table so fast that the legs grind against the stone, a painful scrape piercing the quiet. Standing in a flurry, she raises one hand to the branches curling on her cheeks—points a finger at them, looking Felix dead in the eye.

Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are suspiciously bright, for all the open rage she is directing at Felix.

As suddenly as it began, she snatches up the salve and storms off towards the balcony. Not hesitating even for a moment to glance back at Felix.

Dorian counts to ten before breezing into the room as if he’d seen nothing.

“Oh?” he asks, looking around. “Where’s your little shadow? I’ve brought some ice for her face.”

Felix is still staring out at the balcony. Brows furrowed, lips still parted. As if he has something to say, but doesn’t quite know what it is.

 

Dorian spends half a day looking for Felix and the girl they’ve started calling Shadow.

It’s a small thing—he means to join Felix for breakfast but sleeps in late, after a night lying awake and thinking of the last thing his father said to him, interspersed by fitful dreams of blood magic and his heart seizing in his chest.

So he’s already in a foul mood, and he’s not quite keen on asking anyone for help. Until literal hours have passed, and searching the interior of the estate by himself has taken far, far too much time, and he thinks of peach trees and goes to steal one that has fallen to the ground.

The gardener sees him, and thrusts a basketful into his hands.

“Bring these to Master Felix, would you?” the gardener says with a lopsided smile, and a gesture to a hill that overlooks the vineyard. “And make sure that shadow of his gets some, too, poor thing.”

 _Poor thing_? Dorian wonders, standing there with a basket full of ripe peaches in his hands. _You obviously haven’t seen the murderous looks she keeps sending me_.

But, after careful examination, he can make out the shape of one figure leaning against the tree. Napping, probably—and Felix _would_ be lounging about while Dorian searched the entire property for him, he absolutely would.

And he’s about to give Felix a piece of his mind, once he finds his friend there, idly sitting and reading a book with his back to the tree.

But Felix hears him coming—Dorian is stomping rather loud, admittedly—and frantically gestures for him to be quiet.

When Dorian arrives at the top of the hill, he sees Shadow—curled up on her side, one hand extended as if reaching for something. Utterly asleep.

“I think she had awful nightmares,” Felix whispers when Dorian sets the basket between them. “I could hear her tossing and turning all night. This is the only place she really seems to _sleep_.”

“Not a very good trait for a bodyguard,” Dorian answers back. But the expression on her face is so soft, for a change, that he doesn’t have the heart to wake her either.

Felix chuckles, soft and low. “I’m not in any danger here, Dorian,” he says, taking a peach from the basket. “Not that she can guard me from, anyway.”

 

“Venatori?” Even the _word_ rolls off the tongue rather distastefully. Dorian hums thoughtfully as the tip of his pen scratches across his paper. “Never heard of them.”

Dorian has not turned around since Alexius began the conversation—Alexius might not be in the _mood_ to work, but Dorian has never felt more of a drive to bury himself in experiments and calculations than he has since coming here. And after nearly a month, with Alexius being utterly absent the entire time, he’s thrilled to finally do so.

He can hear the magister tinkering with some of the delicate equipment at the back of the lab. Loosening and tightening a valve, over and over. “They have been a great help in recent months.”

Dorian’s pen stills, mid word. Then, with a small shake of his head, he returns to writing furiously. Before the calculations he’s made are gone completely from his mind. “Yes, I understand it you’ve been away more than not lately.”

“They’re very interested in our theorems, Dorian.”

The word ‘ _our’_ is spoken with such deliberateness that Dorian frowns, even as he continues writing. “As most should be, I imagine, but I hardly thought our preliminary results were interesting enough to get any kind of attention just yet. Not to mention some… secret society? Cult? What have you.”

Alexius laughs. And it’s not the same as it used to be, Dorian knows, but—well. He can forgive the magister a harder edge to his voice, after recent events.

“So _dramatic_ , Dorian,” Alexius chides. Then he hesitates a moment—pausing in his fiddling—before saying, “You know, I thought you might be thrilled. You’re always saying we should push for more attention, that it’s a shame no one else can see how truly ground-breaking the work we’re doing here is.”

“You still haven’t told me _precisely_ what they are.”

“Why don’t you see for yourself? They are hosting a dinner in Quarinus in a few weeks. Felix and I will be attending—I’ve secured an invitation for you, as well.”

Dorian sighs. “That’s a long way to travel for just a _dinner_ , Alexius. And we’re… _months_ behind on work here.”

He tries not to let it sound like an accusation, or a dismissal. But he has very little desire for _politicking_ right now, after his visit home.

“Think on it, Dorian,” Alexius says.

And he doesn’t give it much thought at all—he has been wanting to bury his nose into books and work and theories for ages now, and with Alexius back there is at last _some_ chance at doing so.

So it is, as always, that in the early hours of the morning he wakes to his shoulder being shaken by Felix. Leftovers from supper stolen from the kitchen, and a damp cloth to wipe the ink from his face.

“I think she’s an illegal slave,” are the first words out of his mouth.

Dorian huffs into the pages of the academic journal he’s fallen asleep on. “What?”

“Shadow, Dorian. I don’t even think she belongs to my father.”

Dorian curses as he sits up, taking the offered cloth automatically. More to wake him up than to clean his face—at least this time he hadn’t fallen asleep on a page of notes, covered in still-wet ink. “And I hesitate to ask, but _why_ did you run down here at whatever ungodly hour it is just to tell me this?”

Felix puts two things on Dorian’s desk—a bowl full of food, long gone cold, and a single letter, written in an unfamiliar hand with a seal on the bottom Dorian doesn’t recognise.

Dorian grabs the letter first.

“Magister Alexius, many salutations, mandatory comments on health and offspring etcetera etcetera… We are pleased with the Herald’s progress as described in your man’s reports. But there was note of an incident in the training yard early this month. Please be advised that I will be forced to report any further such damage to the Herald, in the unfortunate event it were to occur again. He will not be pleased if his property does not function properly as a result. Such and such, glory of the empire, end letter.” Dorian turns the letter over in his hands, as if there will be something written on the back.

Felix stands impatiently the whole while. “They’re talking about when—”

“When she got her face so elegantly smashed in, trying to murder someone during training.” He turns the letter over _again_ , as if he will see something on it that will allow him to dismiss this whole thing as Felix overreacting. “Where is she, by the way? Not exactly living up to her name at the moment.”

“Sleeping on the balcony. I snuck out.”

“On the balcony? Odd little duck.” He scans the letter again, the furrow of his brow only deepening as he does. “They’re calling her a Herald? Of what? Sour looks, I imagine.”

That is, perhaps, somewhat unfair. Shadow seems to have relaxed a little around Felix—Dorian swears he saw her look a little less grumpy when his friend cracked a joke, the other day. Felix spent the rest of the day positively glowing as a result.

“That seal,” Felix says. “I’ve seen it on some of my father’s other correspondence—it’s a Venatori seal, though I’m not certain what that is. I think they’re some group my father has joined? There seems to be a lot of them.”

“Well, conveniently enough, we have been invited to a Venatori-hosted dinner at the end of the month. Apparently they are suddenly _very_ interested in the work your father and I have been doing. Which is a pile of horseshit, because I haven’t seen him down here working at all since I came back.”

“We?”

Dorian tosses the letter onto the desk, then picks up the bowl of food. “Yes,” he says, gesturing with the fork, “ _we_. Apparently you’re coming along, too.”

“Dorian, that’s ridiculous. He hasn’t let me leave the estate since…”

To fill the ensuing, unbearable silence, Dorian begins to eat the food Felix brought. “This would have been _excellent_ hot. It’s a shame I’m the only one who cares about _progress_ these days, or I might have been able to take a _break_ for a change.”

“Not that you would,” Felix teases, automatically. But his amused smile falls, and his brow furrows. “Dorian.”

“Felix.”

“Do you think he’s bringing me along so they can… do something to Shadow?”

Dorian huffs. “You make it sound as if there’s some great _secret_. If he wanted to take her to show her off, he would just take her, and leave you at home none the wiser.”

And it’s strange—but Felix doesn’t look reassured by that thought at all.

 

“That,” Dorian announces into the cold night air, “was the most awful dinner I have ever suffered through.”

Felix’s fingers are shaking as he attempts to loosen his bowtie, and his attempt at a laugh runs a little hollow. “I have to admit,” he says, “I’ve never been so simultaneously insulted and confused in my life. For hours!”

Dorian turns so his back is to the balcony railing, sturdy as he leans against it. Shadow has followed them out of the lounge, where a number of prominent _altus_ and magisters are still mingling, and she presses her back to the stone wall, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. All dressed up, pretty as a painting—her hair slicked back, a dark iron collar over her neck, wearing a dress in the Alexius family’s dark crimson. Loose enough that she could still fight, should she need to.

“Someone write my parents, they need to know _immediately_ that there are new standards for family dinners.”

Felix’s fingers fumble as he continues to struggle with the collar of his shirt. Shadow clicks her tongue in annoyance, then pushes from the wall. In only a few quick steps, she stands before Felix, slips off his bowtie, then flicks open the top button of his shirt for him.

There is sweat on her brow, Dorian realises. And her hands shake as she withdraws, her jaw visibly clenched.

“Thank you,” Felix breathes. He sends a wary glance towards the balcony doors, then says, “Dorian, I don’t care what I said before, we’re never doing this again. These people are _insane_.”

“Agreed. If I have to hear one more comment about returning the empire to its former _glory_ , I’ll scream.” He almost runs a hand through his hair, then remembers that he will still need to appear immaculately groomed when they venture back inside. “I was asked by two _separate_ people if I looked forward to bringing the South under the Tevinter banner once again.”

The colour of Felix’s skin is improving, in the cold night air. He still looks pallid, though. “Then I won’t tell you what they said about Par Vollen. Dorian— _Dorian._ What kind of people think these things? And why is my father wrapped up in this?”

Dorian can’t help but look at Shadow again—her back to the wall once more, her eyes flicking between them. Pupils green circles in the moonlight, her eyes impossibly wide.

It was difficult to ignore their host looking at her like a literal piece of meat the entire night. Staring at the collar covering her neck with open delight. A glance inside, and Dorian can see him—speaking with Alexius in hushed tones, a smile creeping up his features that makes Dorian’s skin crawl.

Alexius, however, is not smiling.

“That Erimond,” Dorian says. “Have you met him before?”

“That’s the thing. Just last year, father couldn’t stand him. I heard him complaining to Mother about the man blocking some senate vote or other nearly every session.”

Whatever Magister Erimond says, the only response he receives from Alexius is a terse nod. Then Erimond and Alexius turn, and begin to walk towards the far corner of the room.

“Well, they’re going off together now. Looking downright _secretive_ , as well.” Dorian looks sideways at Felix, who is fiddling uneasily with one end of his necktie. Dorian raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a conspirator’s smile. “Shall we follow?”

And it’s a simple thing, really, for what they find. Through a door, across a hall then down some stairs. No guards, waiting to stop them.

At the bottom of the stairs, the door is slightly ajar—just enough so Dorian can see clean, white tile and walls, and they can hear the voices within, and he can _smell_ it. It takes him a moment to place it, really—a sensation on the back of his throat that makes his whole mouth feel dry, and his lips curl in distaste before he even realises what it is.

The air in the room carries the copper tang of blood magic.

Felix covers his mouth with his hand. Shadow, a step behind him, falters.

“So few,” Alexius is saying. His tone seems oddly flat—detached. “I expected more.”

Erimond, by contrast, sounds utterly _fascinated_. “Yes,” he agrees, “we found them surprisingly _weak_ , under duress. Only figured out to use blood magic to keep them alive longer for the last few—and then they go and die before we get any concrete answers anyway. How the change occurs, why only a percentage of the population is capable of it, why it only occurs on contact with seawater… We’ve discovered how to keep them in this state, once they have made the change, but the strain it puts them under kills them rather quickly. A waste, really. The Herald is the most resilient of them all by far—a shame we can’t use her as a test subject. But, we all must follow his whims, hm?”

“Yes,” Alexius agrees, slowly. “We must.”

Erimond barks a laugh. “Having second thoughts, Alexius? It’s not too late to back out. I’ll just take the Herald back, and you may go back to your son—ah, have I struck a nerve?”

“No.” A soft, resigned sigh. “No. Perhaps we can continue this discussion… elsewhere.”

“I forget, you scholarly types can be so _soft_. This way, if you please—we’ll grab something from my private wine cellar on the way up.”

“Hide!” Dorian hisses, grabbing at Felix and shoving him into the closest unlocked room. He has to go back and grab Shadow when she does not follow them—standing stock still, face utterly blank, she doesn’t even _flinch_ when he grabs her arm and drags her away.

Alexius and Erimond pass without incident, closing the door behind them. Not locking it, Dorian notes—and there is perhaps something _more_ unsettling about that. The idea that whatever is in there, whatever unsettled Alexius so, whatever poor soul must be in there, in what kind of pain Dorian can’t imagine—it is no great secret.

 _Blood magic to keep them alive_ , Dorian wonders, his stomach turning.

He’s not entirely certain he wants to see what’s in there.

But he slips into the hall anyway, when he is certain the magisters are gone. Opens the door, tries to ignore that awful smell, and walks into the room before he can lose his nerve.

It is well-lit—it only takes a gentle turn of the knob on the wall near the door for the gas lamps to light up, casting the bright white tile that covers the floor in a sickly yellow glow.

There are five steel tables, arranged in the center of the room, with five emaciated elven bodies on them, each in varying stages of mutilation.

Only one of them reacts to the lights coming on—an old woman, turning her head in the direction of the door. Searching, but her eyes gone milky and unseeing. Squinting—as if perhaps she can make out their shapes, or the change in light from their shadows, but nothing more.

There are Dalish markings on her face.

On all of them, Dorian realises, though he brings a hand to his mouth at the sight of them. _Dead_ , he thinks, they absolutely have to be—in various stages of some sort of transformation, scales that are dull with illness covering most of their forms to at least some extent. One of them is covered nearly head to toe—and his legs fused together to form a tail with delicate fins. Cut precisely in half, to expose bone and flesh. As if someone has looked to see to what extent the transformation occurred.

The others are no better. And as he approaches—mouth dry, stomach rolling, hands shaking—he sees in their faces lifeless eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

Behind him, Felix vomits onto the floor.

He’s only dimly aware of it, really. As he reaches the old woman—the only one still alive—and reaches for the chains that keep her bound to the table. She whimpers as he undoes them—and he looks over her injuries with a kind of numbness that surprises him, the kind that blocks the _screaming_ that is building up inside, but isn’t very useful right now.

Her scales are the silver lining on the edge of a cloud, interspersed with speckles of bright, unabashed gold. And black designs that swirl like the lines on her face—though most of those have been pulled off, he notes, as if from a great distance. As if examining something much farther away from him.

The old woman grabs his hand. Her nails digging into his wrist—little pinpricks of pain that shock him into the present. Into this room that reeks of the worst tales of the homeland he loves, worse than the nightmares that have tormented him since his last visit home.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “Tell me. Is this some trick?”

He hears barefooted steps in the hall. Then, a sharp intake of breath from the doorway.

And it _clicks_ , then. The reason Shadow is so, so angry.

She is beside him in a heartbeat. Shoving him, her hands pressing against him with an urgency that Dorian can’t fault. He steps aside, and she nearly falls over the woman on the table.

“Who—” the woman asks again, hesitating as Shadow’s hands flutter over her body. Touching every incision, every place where a scale has been pried off or something has been shoved in and then removed. As if she cannot decide which is the worst, where she should attempt to stop the bleeding.

She opens and closes her mouth several times. Trying to speak. Each time, her face twists in pain, and her breathing grows more and more ragged.

“Who are you?” the woman asks, weakly bringing her hands up. Feeling all along Shadow’s arms, then her neck, then her face—finding pointed ears on each side of her head, exploring the slicked back curls of her hair, the curve of her nose.

The old woman’s brow furrows, as she tries to make out the details with her clearly limited vision.

“I don’t…”

Shadow’s hands settle on either side of the old woman’s face. Then she leans forward, and touches their foreheads together.

Relief and such immeasurable pain flicker across the old woman’s features. She breathes, “Aevalle,” and it’s half a question and half a prayer.

Shadow nods. Not letting go.

“Oh, _da’len_.” The old woman’s hands slip down to her neck, feel along the lines of the collar there. “ _Da’len_ ,” she says, again, as tears begin to track down her cheeks. “What have they done to you? I cannot—I cannot _see_ , tell me what they’ve done.”

A sound comes out of Shadow that merely air moving in her throat—but it sounds like the breath before inconsolable sobbing.

 _I can’t_ , she mouths to the skin on the old woman’s brow.

“ _Da’len_ ,” the woman whispers. Then she shakes her head, and reaches up once more—taking Shadow’s face between her hands. “Aevalle. Listen to me—I am dying, _da’len_. Take—take the others, and get as far away from here as you can. Find another clan. Protect them. _Please._ ”

Shadow’s face twists. Her hands curl at the old woman’s shaved scalp.

“Do it in my stead, da’len. I cannot— _ir abelas_. _Mala suledin nadas_.”

She nods. As if it’s killing her.

The old woman smiles. Then it falters, as her hands begin to fall from Shadow’s face. “Aevalle?” she whispers, her voice sounding so very small.

Shadow clings to her as the old woman’s lips move, but make no sound. She reaches down and holds the woman’s hand, their brows still pressed together.

The woman’s lips tremble once more, and her eyes flick upwards—and then she is still.

It seems a very long time has passed, when Shadow— _Aevalle_ —finally straightens. Uncurls, as if with great effort, then raises her head and looks around the room. Stares empty-eyed at the bodies on the other tables.

When she looks down again, it’s to close the old woman’s eyes with a shaking hand.

Dorian realises she probably needs a moment—that she is standing in the ruin of her life, and they are strangers to her. He takes a step back, while behind him Felix takes one forward.

“Aevalle,” Felix says—softly, uncertainly.

She ignores him. She looks down at the old woman on the table, a wealth of sorrow plain on her features.

Then it breaks, and she takes a single, shaken breath, parts her lips and—

—and when she chokes out the first tentative notes of a sad melody, a despair as solid and cold grips him as if there were a demon in the room.

He is only aware of the first halting portion of the song—a refrain that does not even have words, just broken, hollow tones that falter, notes when hit warble off key almost instantly. But with each note, with each slippery attempt made by Aevalle to work her way through some funerary rite, Dorian _hears_ less and _feels_ more.

And what he feels—

He falls to his knees, clutching at his chest. Dimly aware of tears streaming down his face—and somewhere in the distance there is something like _alarm_ , someone shouting _this isn’t right, snap out of it_ —

His own thoughts. Soon overtaken by a wave of grief, the like of which Dorian has never felt in his life—and then there is nothing but his hands making claws in the white, white tile, choking on his own sobs in his throat. This grief rattling around in his chest, growing with every wretched breath he manages to take.

At some point, the singing stops and he looks up. Aevalle is staring down at him—her own tears on her cheeks, and a confusion in her expression that is rapidly shifting to open horror.

There is blood trickling out from under the dark iron collar she wears. It is the last clear thing he remembers.

 

Dorian wakes to birdsong, soft sheets, and the breathing of someone else in the bed with him. With a splitting headache, puffy eyes, and the skin on his face feeling terribly dry. As if he’s cried all night.

It takes him a moment to collect the scattered fragments of his memory and to realise that— _yes_ , he has.

He opens his eyes—with considerable effort—and blinks at the room around him, blearily. Felix in the bed next to him, both of them fully clothed and lying atop the blankets. Though someone was kind enough to remove Dorian’s necktie, to undo the top few buttons of their shirts and remove their belts.

“Aevalle,” Felix says with a sandpaper voice.

Dorian manages to sit up first, even though he feels a hundred years older than he really is. The room Felix has been provided with is not particularly spacious, so it only takes a quick glance to confirm that she is not sitting anywhere nearby—not on the only chair, not on the floor…

Movement catches his eye—the curtain, parted just enough to allow for the light that woke them. Swaying in a gentle breeze—the balcony door is open.

Felix’s gaze follows Dorian’s—and then he scrambles out of bed, and stumbles out to the balcony.

Dorian follows, slightly slower.

She is sitting on the balcony, as far away from the door as she can get. Crammed into the corner of the rail and the wall, knees pulled up against her chest. Face half-buried in her arms, staring in between the delicate metal rails and into the sunrise.

“Aevalle?”

She jolts in place at the sound of Felix’s voice—and Dorian didn’t think it possible but she manages to press further into her corner, staring up at them with wide, frightened eyes. She curls into herself, so small that only her eyes peer out at them over her knees. Under the unruly mess made of her hair, sprung free from its tight hold, her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark, dark circles underneath.

Dorian hesitates—he is so used to her appearing sour-faced and angry that her open terror is something he’s utterly unprepared to face.

But Felix takes one tentative step forward. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Aevalle?”

Her eyes flick over Felix—how he lowers himself a little, keeps his body posture open, friendly. How he smiles, reassuringly. Then to Dorian, standing stock still by the balcony door.

Her only response is a quick nod.

“Aevalle,” Felix continues. “Those people were your clan, right?”

He attempts to move closer, again—she flinches, and he pauses.

“We want to help,” Felix tries, but she remains curled up in her corner, staring them down with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“You were bleeding,” Dorian says—perhaps a little too loud, a little too abrupt.

But it gets her attention solely on him—and her eyes narrow a little. She’s always been more openly suspicious of him than Felix, he knows, and perhaps if he left his friend would have more luck with her. But he is thinking only of that trickle of blood, seeping out from under that metal collar.

“Have you cleaned it up?”

She considers him a moment before shaking her head.

“That must be terribly uncomfortable by now. Would you—would you allow me to take a look? Or I can go get some supplies for you, if you prefer.”

She gives him a long, hard look up and down—but as she reaches his face again, he can see the edges of it cracking. She inhales, sharply, then bites her lip, as if she’s decided something.

She lets go of her knees, crosses her legs, and gestures for him to approach.

To be completely honest, it’s the last thing he expected her to do, so he stands there for what is certainly an embarrassing amount of time, just staring at her in utter shock.

But he does, eventually, approach—as one would a cornered cat, _very slowly_.

He kneels before her, and she reaches up to unclasp the collar herself. She winces as she begins to lower it.

“Wait a moment,” Dorian says—reaching up and touching the backs of her hands with the tips of his fingers. Just enough to stall her. “Felix, let’s get some water and a cloth to rinse all that off with, hm?”

They get the whole front of her shirt soaked in the process, a great deal of old, brown blood washing down with it. But they rinse her off well enough to remove the collar, and to expose the wound underneath.

And, Dorian realises with a growing horror, the _thing_ embedded in her neck.

He cannot get a good look at it—the wound itself is swollen, as if it never properly healed in the first place, then became greatly agitated. It has been a long time since his anatomy classes, but there is a long, vertical incision that someone has made, and then it seems as if it was split open further by someone digging around, and something being forced inside.

That the _something_ is glowing—well. That’s fascinating and disgusting enough all on its own.

“What did they do to you?” Felix asks, as Dorian dabs at the area around the wound with the damp cloth. “And—what could they _possibly_ have hoped to accomplish? Ah, I wish we could just _ask_ you…”

Dorian’s hand is shaking. Probably because his mind is turning, and he has a pretty good idea.

 _Herald_ , they called her in the letters.

“I imagine,” Dorian says, dropping his hand from her neck, and withdrawing to give her space to breathe, "that you were as surprised as we were about what happened last night.”

But she is not listening to him—when he looks up at her expression, her whole face has lit up with some idea or other. Her expression _alive_ in a way he’s never seen before, as if some brilliant idea has just occurred to her. Something she should have thought of ages ago.

She sits up straight, raises one hand—and does the most peculiar thing with it. She faces her hand toward herself, index finger raised, then draws her hand closer to her chest, curling the finger down as she does.

He stares at her for so long that she frowns and lowers her hand.

Dorian nearly shouts, “Wait,” as it _clicks_ in his mind.

“ _Oh_ ,” Felix says, softly, at the same time.

“Do that again,” Dorian says.

Her smile is so broad and easy that it’s hard to believe Dorian has never seen it before. Her eyes light up as she repeats the gesture, this time mouthing the words—

_Ask me._

 

It takes considerable time, to learn to understand her.

They get her story in bits and pieces—fragments, single words mashed together to make impressions of full sentences. Sometimes they ask for the sign of a word and she frowns, as if struggling to remember it.

 _They came for me_ , she admits. Her eyes bright with unshed tears. _They didn’t have to take the others, but they did it anyway_.

The story, apparently, goes as such—her mother found her father adrift, beaten and starved, took him back to the clan and nursed him back to health. As these stories tend to go, he fell in love with his rescuer, and stayed with the clan.

 _My mother lost her hearing after a childhood illness_ , she explains. _So the whole clan spoke to her like this. We already had some signs, for speaking to one another underwater. We just made them… more, for her._

Her father was a talented singer—so talented, it seems, that stories of his singing and playing spread through the clans, and he was sought after to perform at festivals, funerals, weddings… His talent put clan Lavellan on the Dalish map (for what that’s worth). His singing would make the most stoic weep, the most miserable leap and dance with joy.

When her father died, she took up the mantle of Clan Lavellan’s Songbird. So when the Venatori came calling for some skilled elven singer, they found her.

“What’s so special about your voice, though?” Felix asks. Sitting on Dorian’s chair, his supper sitting half-eaten in his lap. “And—more importantly, why make it so you can’t even use it? And why bring you _here_ , of all places? Brilliant mage my father may be, but I doubt he could help you.”

Aevalle is perched on the desk—eating Dorian’s untouched and cold meal. Fork in hand, she can offer only a helpless shrug.

Dorian, for his part, is wearing a groove in the floor for his pacing.

“I think Alexius is the only one who _can_ ,” he says—more snappish than he intends. “Though it’s not _you_ they want him to help.”

Aevalle puts down her plate and fork to ask, _What do you mean?_

“It all makes perfect sense, of course—courting Alexius with a charming little bodyguard for his ill son, inviting me along to their idyllic little cult dinners. The sudden, overwhelming interest in _practical applications_ for a theoretical school of magic. They want to erase their mistakes, as it were. Pluck a few little strings, turn back time to when they cut you open and have a second go at it. And when that doesn’t work, perhaps a _third_ , then a _fourth_ , until they either get it right or rip apart the universe trying.”

He realises they’re both staring at him blankly, and slows.

“Time magic,” Dorian says. “Felix, your father and I are researching time magic.”

No one says anything for some time. No one even reacts, until Aevalle lifts her hands and signs, _What is wrong with this country?_

 

“This is a waste of time,” Felix gripes, the minute the door is closed and he, Aevalle, and Dorian are alone.

“And here I thought you had the best healers money could buy,” Dorian says. Irritable from long hours trapped in a carriage, though the company itself was delightful. Aevalle positively _vibrated_ with excitement the whole journey to the Alexius northern estate—a sprawling winter home nestled in a private, secluded cove on the northern shores of Tevinter. They spent much of the journey happily separated from the other members of their little expedition, learning the signs for _boat_ and _wave_ and a few naughtier things besides.

She is hovering at the corner of the room, glancing significantly towards the open doors—open to the night air, the rush of the nearby waves and the wind in the palm trees, where a low patio leads to white sand, glittering in the moonlight.

“And besides, there are worse treatments to attempt than lying on a beach and admiring a lovely view, don’t you think?”

Felix sighs, pressing his palm to his head. “I don’t mean to sound… unappreciative, Dorian, but this is not something—”

Aevalle huffs an impatient breath of air and runs between them. Her footsteps light on the wood floor, then on sand.

Felix follows her to the doors only, a curious expression on his face—and then he steps on her discarded shirt and stares at it for so long that Dorian thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Dorian can’t help a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so excited about anything,” he muses, startling Felix out of his thoughts.

Felix bends to pick up the shirt with a flustered smile. “Perhaps,” he says, softly, “this isn’t a total waste, then.”

They follow the trail of her footprints and discarded clothing—and Dorian pretends not to notice how Felix’s awkwardness grows with each item they retrieve—until the waves are lapping at their boots, and they are scanning the moonlit ocean for any sign of her.

“Think she’s run off?” Dorian wonders, just as she leaps from the ocean in the distance.

Scales glittering, tail fins fluttering in the breeze—droplets of water trailing along behind her and catching the light like so many brilliant gemstones.

She does it twice more before Dorian has the frame of mind to say, “Well I suppose we should have expected that.”

Felix swallows loudly. “Yes,” he says, softly.

 _Only some of us have the gift_ , she tells them later as they sit on the beach around a small fire in the middle of the night. _My mother did. My father didn’t, but I’ve never heard of city elves who do. Most of the hunters—it helps, if you can keep up with the halla._

_The Keeper said we all did, once—that the Dread Wolf stood on the shore and called to us, there, and when we answered he stole it away. So we could not join our Gods in the deep, could not warn them when he trapped them._

“How did you get it back?” Felix asks. Wide eyed like a child, as Aevalle tells them the secrets of her people.

She exhales, and it almost sounds like an embarrassed laugh. _There’s a story about a girl who made a wager, and won hers back._

“What was the wager?” Dorian wonders, lounging on a soft blanket atop the sand.

Her hair has grown long enough now that she can tuck it behind her ear. _It depends on the story,_ she signs. _On the teller. Some say that she outsmarted him, or outplayed him on the fiddle, or hunted some great foe he could not best._

“Then what’s your favourite?” Felix asks. Leaning forward, his legs crossed and his hands on his knees.

 _It’s not very traditional, and the Keeper always said it was blasphemous, but…_ Her smile twists a little—and her eyes seem to catch a little more of the firelight as she blinks, rapidly. _My father used to tell it that it wasn’t the wager, in the end. Not her fiddle playing or her clever words or her great strength. But that he fell in love with her, and gave it willingly._

 

Dorian returns one evening from attending a Venatori event with Alexius—and though the hour is late, his skin is still crawling with the words spoken around him and his throat feels full with bile from the effort of keeping silent, so he takes a chance and winds his way through the estate to Felix’s rooms.

He hears Felix’s voice through the door, and does not bother to knock. He finds them sitting in the bath, Aevalle’s head hanging over the ornate tub as Felix helps her wash out her hair.

“And why— _hold still_.” He laughs, as she tries to turn her head to look at him. “Why red? What was wrong with your hair before?”

Dorian can’t see her response, but Felix says, “Ah,” with a sage nod. “Because you _like_ it. Well I’m glad we settled that I’m arm-deep in red herbs to appease your vanity. I don’t know who’s worse, you or Dorian. Will we be dying your eyebrows to match?”

And Dorian can’t bring himself to break the moment—he leans on the doorframe, watching as Felix teases her, then helps her out of the tub and gives her a towel to dry her now _very_ red hair. Shoulder-length now, loose wet curls leaving damp trails on her white shirt.

 

Alexius notices, when Felix and Aevalle pass him in the hall, that her hair is a different colour.

“Father?” Felix asks innocently, when the magister’s gaze narrows in suspicion.

He looks between her and his son, scowl deepening, but does not respond.

 

One night, Aevalle comes to the lab alone.

Dorian only knows she’s there because he overhears some “assistant” the Venatori sent harassing her just outside the door. Dorian hands the man a stack of papers and says, “Take this to Ervius,” knowing him too new to the estate to realise there is no Ervius employed there for at least two hours.

Aevalle looks panicked, skittish. She keeps clenching and unclenching her hands, looking at the Venatori sideways—impatient to tell Dorian whatever’s wrong.

“What’s happened?” he asks her, the moment they are alone.

She hesitates. Touches her throat before signing, _I laughed._

Felix’s rooms are dark—with all the oil lamps snuffed out, there is only the moonlight pouring in through the open balcony doors to illuminate Dorian’s way. He nearly trips on an overturned chair as his eyes adjust—noticing the scattered furniture and an entire deck of playing cards splayed across the floor.

And a shadow, slumped by the side of the bed.

“Felix?” he calls, his voice high with panic.

It is Felix, he realises as his friend stirs at the sound of his voice. “Dorian?” he answers back— _slowly_ , his voice thick, as if his mouth does not want to form around the word as he speaks it.

Dorian’s eyes narrow, and he sees his friend attempt to stand—only to jerk back, then attempt to glance curiously over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Felix mutters. Then, “Dorian… where’s Aevalle? She was here and…”

He sounds like he’s hit his head on something. Dorian moves around the discarded furniture with quick, even strides, concern rising the closer he gets.

“Why are you tied up?” he asks, seeing Felix bound by his wrists to the bedpost. “What happened?”

Felix is breathing heavily—this close, Dorian can see his wide his pupils are blown, the gloss of sweat on his face. He is flushed and his skin is warm, as if he has a fever. Or perhaps he’s drunk, but Dorian cannot smell wine on his breath.

His friend makes a face. “I—I asked her to. But I don’t think—can you untie me? Where’s Aevalle? She—”

He pauses, looking over Dorian’s shoulder. His whole face lights up, and he tries to rise again, the belt that has been used to keep him there creaking against the bedpost.

Dorian hardly glances back in time to see Aevalle whirl towards the balcony to hide.

Felix slumps back to the floor in defeat, his head falling back to rest on the bedpost. He closes his eyes and mutters something Dorian can’t make out. His breathing is heavy, as if he has been…

“Ah,” Felix manages to say, interrupting Dorian’s train of thought. He swallows, hard, and pulls ineffectively at his restraints. “I—we were playing a game. Cards. I think. And I said—what did I say?”

Felix pauses a while, to focus on breathing. Dorian glances uneasily at the state of his friend’s clothes—all twisted about him, as if he has been struggling in this position on the floor for some time. One of his shoes has been kicked off, and Dorian cannot see where it landed.

“She laughed,” Felix continues after a while. “That’s the—she laughed, and it sounded so… and then I tried to…”

Felix trails off again, some measure of lucidity returning to his expression. Dorian glances back at the scattered cards, the overturned chair, and feels his stomach twist.

“Nothing happened,” Felix says, as if he is reminding himself. “I—I had an urge to do… something inappropriate. And I knocked over the chair, so I wouldn’t do it. Then I told her to tie me up.”

Dorian watches his friend close his eyes again. Focusing on deep, even breaths.

“I think you should leave me tied up,” Felix says, softly, after a long silence.

“That’s probably for the best,” Dorian replies.

He makes Felix drink some water, promises to come back, and then he goes to check on Aevalle.

Sure enough, she’s still on the balcony—all curled up into herself, crammed into the corner. Head resting on her knees, and staring out into the distance between the rails.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks.

She sighs. _It’s as he says,_ she explains.

Her hands, Dorian notes, are shaking.

“That’s not what I asked,” he clarifies, crouching before her.

She closes her eyes. He waits some time for her to reach up and unwind the soft, dark cloth that covers her neck—and he winces at the sight of blood seeping from the wound there.

He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, and starts dabbing it up. She inhales a sharp breath when he comes too close to the wound, so he tries to avoid it as best he can.

He leaves for water and proper supplies, well stocked in Felix’s rooms due to frequent incidents in the training yard for the first few months she spent here. She does not move as he cleans her up, applies a soothing salve that he hopes is gentle enough not to irritate her, until he offers her a soft, clean bandage to wind about her neck.

 _Is he going to be okay?_ she signs when she is done.

Dorian can only smile—though he feels it straining around the edges. “You did what, one little giggle? Or were you cackling with glee like a seawitch from those charming little folktales?”

She almost smiles back, clearly in spite of herself. _It was only a little. And it sounded awful._

“And hurt like a punch to the gut, I imagine.” He tilts his head as he looks down at her. “Aevalle, the first time this happened you sang a whole song—”

Her face twists as her hands move. _Not even half a song. If you call that singing._

“Details. Not quite half a song, and we were overwhelmed by your dulcet tones for what, most of an evening? Let’s give it a couple hours, and we’ll see if he’s much improved by then. Sound good?”

She nods, as if he is any sort of expert on the matter. But she keeps nodding, and her hands make fists in her loose clothing, and Dorian cannot bear the look on her face a moment longer.

He only gets halfway through, “May I wait with you?” before tears stream down her face, as if a dam has broken, and she curls into him as he wraps his arms around her. Burying her face in his shirt and clinging to him, her breathing wracked with silent sobs.

 

One evening Dorian approaches Felix’s rooms, returned fresh from another Venatori meeting with Alexius. He is bearing news of their movements, some more hints of their plans, and what he knows is bringing an urgency to his steps, causing tension in his shoulders he cannot shake.

As he reaches the door, it flies open—and Aevalle rushes through, runs past him without even seeing him. He gets a glimpse of tears, of clenched fists…

Ah, he thinks. So Felix finally told her.

He finds his friend standing on the balcony, watching the sun set. Hands on the rail, his face passive as he stares off into the distance.

Dorian says, softly, “She took that rather well, don’t you think?”

Felix starts—then closes his eyes with a sigh. “Dorian,” he says. “I—when did you return?”

“Just now. Your father insisted that one of us had to go back to work.”

Felix nods. “Of course. Of course.”

Dorian waits, as Felix tries to sift through his thoughts. Watches his friend as he reigns in his emotions—reaches up and undoes the top button of his shirt, so he can breathe a little better.

“I should have told her earlier,” Felix says, finally.

Dorian hums thoughtfully. “There really is no good timing to tell someone you’re dying, Felix.”

Felix lets out a pained laugh. It tapers off into the evening breeze, leaving only silence between them. The calls of birds, somewhere in the vineyard.

There’s more, Dorian knows. Whatever revelation prompted the desire to tell Aevalle, after all this time— _eight months_ , nearly. His own news can wait, he thinks, watching his friend so lost in thought.

“Not good news from the healers, then,” Dorian ventures, when Felix doesn’t explain.

Felix closes his eyes. “It’s the Blight,” he says. “There was never good news to begin with.”

Dorian inclines his head. “What’s this really about?”

Felix doesn’t seem to be listening. “You know what they say about the things you love,” he says. As if to someone who isn’t there. Then he drops his hands from the railing, and when he turns to face Dorian the lines of his face are sharp, focused. “You’ve learned something new.”

Dorian inclines his head. “Your father’s doctors have finally clued in that she’s more healed than they thought. Either that or we haven’t been keeping them sufficiently distracted with you as of late. From the talk, it’s only a matter of time before they insist on taking her back.”

“And then they’ll figure out they didn’t fail after all.”

Dorian sighs. “The only thing keeping them from doing so is your father.”

Felix stills. “Truly?”

“He’s under the impression that you’re smitten. Insists that her presence is a positive influence on your health.”

He watches his friend’s expression, finding the tells he’s looking for in a matter of seconds. Felix was never very good at hiding what he’s thinking.

“Have you told her?” he asks, gently.

Felix sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We’re in Tevinter, Dorian. As far as the law is concerned, I own her. Not to mention she’ll probably just… blame it all on _that_ ,” he adds, gesturing to his throat with a rueful smile. “No. She’s my friend, Dorian. That’s enough for me.”

But Dorian senses there’s more—so he joins his friend at the rail, watching as Felix stares out at the vineyard.

“I want to free her, Dorian,” Felix says at length. “And I need you to keep her that way.”

 

She is supposed to meet Dorian in Kirkwall.

The captain of the ship Felix puts her on is no-nonsense, but kind enough. Brisque, but insists the cook give her heaping portions at dinner because she’s too skinny. Pretty much yells in her face, even though Felix explained she can hear just fine.

The crew keep out of her way, until the second night they notice her sitting on the edge of her seat, listening with wide eyes to the story one of them is telling. Then they invite her among them, and although they are vulgar they do not ask questions, or make any move to hurt her.

One of them is Dalish. He does not understand her signing, but know the clan by reputation when she does. He helps her shave part of her head, and he speaks of his own clan, far away now, and it is so easy and the sea so calm that she almost forgets, for a moment, everything that has happened to her.

They do not deserve what happens the third night, when Corypheus finds them. No one would.

She… was not entirely certain he was real. Couldn’t be quite sure that his twisted features weren’t all part of the fever dreams, no matter how they haunt her dreams.

His hand curling around her neck, the deck covered with the slaughtered crew, is real enough.

“You thought to run from me,” he hisses. “Thought you could hide.”

“My lord,” one of the Venatori says. Handing him the stack of papers retrieved from her things. She can’t read a word of them, but Felix told her what they said and—

She screams. She can feel the thing in her throat… _uncurl_ from itself, begin to vibrate. It must be only a little movement, but it feels more like it’s rattling up and down her entire spine.

His dragon flinches. The Venatori drop whatever they’re holding and clutch at their ears.

The Elder One doesn’t drop her, however. He clenches his hand tighter, crushing her throat until she can’t breathe, and the scream dies in her lungs.

He drops her to the deck right when she feels she’s about to black out. She reels, gasping, clutching at the scarf covering her throat.

When she looks up again, Corypheus is standing over her, looking down at her with a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“You, _rattus_ ,” he says, “will be the Herald of my victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit team, sorry about the wait!! Work has been pretty busy lately. @_@
> 
> Around the time I posted the last chapter, Nipuni posted this [absolutely beautiful fanart of Victorian Painter Solas on tumblr](http://nipuni.tumblr.com/post/145629990080/im-reading-this-awesome-fic-black-coral-by). You should check it out! I also did an [art/fic trade with adenicy](http://adenicy.tumblr.com/post/146190693673/art-trade-with-dinoswrites-aevalle-is-such-a), and [JessicaPendragon](http://jessicapendragon.tumblr.com/) was kind enough to [commission salesart to draw Aevalle](http://salesart.tumblr.com/post/147046493342/aevalle-lavellan-for-dinoswrites-commissioned-by)!
> 
> Endless, endless thanks to [valyrias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias) for beta work this chapter. We bounced it back and forth quite a few times, and she was instrumental in making it anywhere near as understandable as it is now.


	13. The Curling Tail

“A word,” Solas says, when the telling is done and the others disperse to argue among themselves or finish setting up the shelters for the night.

She follows him a way up the beach, in the direction Cullen brought her from. The sun is low, orange and red light piercing through the trees behind them as the wind tosses their leaves, and she watches the shadows sway on the sand as she walks rather than his closed expression. She has to shove her hair back behind her ears with one hand while she holds as many of Vivienne’s skirts as she can with the other, so she can walk without tripping over them.

When they are well enough away from camp, Solas stands next to her, facing the ocean with his hands behind his straight, straight back. Still not quite looking at her, it seems.

She busies herself with shoving the sleeves of Vivienne’s dress up to her shoulders, and trying to force her hair back with both hands.

Sunlight the colour of fire catches the blue beads on the bracelet on her left wrist. When she finally has the courage to glance up at Solas, he is—

Looking right at it. _Smiling_.

Oh she must look a wreck, she knows, but his smile only deepens when she meets his gaze.

Her heart does a little flip.

He bends and fishes a long piece of seaweed out of the water. His long, deft fingers move, precise and quick, and it glitters with some subtle magic as he winds it around itself over and over.

When he is finished, it resembles a dark green braid, thin and strong. He hands it to her, and she uses it to tie back her hair.

“That will, unfortunately, not last once it has dried out, but it should serve you well until then.” Then his eyebrow rises, at her curious expression. “What? I was not _always_ bald,” he says, as if that does anything but raise more questions.

She tries to picture him with hair, but squinting at him only makes him laugh a little.

It tapers off, and his expression falls. His shoulders are a hard, hard line again, and he looks out to the sea.

“What Corypheus placed in your neck,” he says, softly. “It is _ours_.”

He glances sideways at her, and she realises that her hand has gone to touch the bandages there.

_How do you know?_

He ducks his head, and manages to look a touch sheepish. “Ah,” he says, looking back towards the ocean again. “I should, perhaps, explain myself. Which will allow me the opportunity to come clean in regards to… other matters I should have confessed to you, much earlier.”

He pauses to collect his thoughts. The lapping waves pull at the hem of Vivienne’s dress, but she finds herself too busy watching the way the stark light and shadows are making the lines of his face stand out.

She can’t help but glance at his neck. But his hands stay firmly at his back, and he makes no move to even adjust his high collar.

“When any being that is capable of dreaming sleeps,” he begins, slowly, “their mind slips to a place beneath the waves.”

 _I know of it. We call it the Beyond,_ she signs. _We tell stories that the creators are trapped there, that the souls of our dead pass down to join them—you’re saying it’s a real place? That we could go there?_

Solas slowly shakes his head. “They are dark, bottomless depths that even you, with your gift for changing your shape, could not hope to reach in person. As to whether it is the realm of the dead, as the Dalish tell, I cannot say—I know if it as a realm where only spirits and echoes of those who visit there in sleeping can survive.”

She frowns. _And how do you know it, then?_

He does not reply immediately. Instead he smiles, still looking out to sea, and she finds it—wistful, almost.

“I am a Dreamer,” he says at length. “One with the ability to manipulate that world when sleeping, to consciously explore its depths, and the memories and emotions that have left impressions like ripples in the current of the depths.”

He is not looking at her, but she resists the urge to grab at his sleeve so she can ask him a hundred questions. She can feel them all bubbling up, no matter how firmly she keeps her hands at her sides. Later, she scolds herself. There will be time for that later.

“In my wanderings, in the memories that lie in depths long forgotten by those who walk the surface, I have glimpsed things that hold power like that which you have been burdened with. They were foci, said to channel power from our gods. I suspect Corypheus stumbled on but a shard of one, but lacked the knowledge to properly wield it.”

She waits until she has his attention before signing, _I still don’t understand. Why did he go looking for me?_

He glances downward, for half a heartbeat. She could swear he looks—remorseful? Guilty?

She blinks, and it’s replaced by a smooth, unreadable expression.

“What do you know of your father?” Solas asks.

She blinks at the abrupt topic change. _What?_

The stone of his features cracks a little at whatever look she gives him in response—a small smile, sneaking its way onto his lips and into the corners of his eyes. “Humor me,” he says, and as always she is unable to refuse him.

She exhales, gathering her thoughts. Her father…

_There’s not much to say. My mother found him floating adrift in the ocean, they fell in love, and he stayed with the clan._

“But before that,” Solas says. “Where did he come from?”

She finds herself thinking back with a furrowed brow—trying to remember snatches of conversations she was too young to understand, or odd comments made without context to fill them out.

 _He never talked about it. I think he was—I think he said he was a thief? He wasn’t Dalish. Maybe from Kirkwall?_ She exhales with a shrug. _He was a troubled man, wherever he came from, and he thought my mother was his second chance. When she died…_

She looks out to sea, then. Thinking of her small hands helping to secure rope on a wooden raft, braiding dark hair one last time. Pressing a token of black coral in between cold, stiff fingers.

Solas is watching her intently. As if she’s on the verge of some great secret, without really knowing it.

_He sang at her funeral, and the whole clan wept. Everyone except me._

Beside her, Solas inhales, then exhales, slow and great like the ebb and flow of the tide.

“We know that whatever Corypheus intended for you, it has to do with your voice. I suspect that, like your gift of changing your shape, there is something that connects you to the People long gone. Something that might be hereditary. Finding out more about your father might lead us to answers.”

She glances out to sea again, and tries not to think of all the places her father took her, looking for something. Of that dark hall, and the door at the end she never opened.

_Why didn’t you tell the others this?_

“That the power Corypheus wields is elvhen in make? That the shard of a weapon in your neck only functions because of some gift unique to you that you don’t even understand?” He shakes his head. “ _I_ believe you, when you say you are a victim in this. I would give them no reason to think you otherwise, _lethallan_.”

There is something about the way he says _lethallan_ that is… different. She wonders if she imagined it—the minute hesitation before the word. As if he almost said something else.

She tilts her head as she looks up at him. Studying the subtle flush at the tips of his ears, and wondering…

_I didn’t think you’d kiss like that, Solas._

She is rewarded by his eyes widening, by the redness creeping further down his ears and rising to his cheeks.

 

Dorian grows tired of Cassandra and Cullen arguing… rather quickly.

“We need to send out boats to be rescued!” Cassandra is saying.

“And send out what uninjured sailors we have?” Cullen snaps back. “What happens if Corypheus comes back looking for Aevalle? We’re defenseless here, we’ve too many wounded.”

“I am aware.” Cassandra straightens, her scowl deepening. “But we have no choice. The Inquisition will have no idea where we have drifted, we are so far off course. We have no ravens to send, to make them aware of our position. What else do you suggest we do?”

“We have mages. They can provide signal flares.”

“That is _if_ there are any ships in range to detect them, instead of ancient magisters intent on our destruction.”

The argument is… nauseatingly cyclical.

So Dorian goes for a walk. He works his way along the bluff near the treeline as the light fades, paying more attention to the sand and grass at his feet, and the shifting of the twilight sky above him as he goes.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Aevalle and Solas standing on the beach until he is nearly upon them.

He stops in place, frowning as he stares curiously—he thinks the painter looks slightly awkward, as if he is trying to think of something to say but unable to find the appropriate words.

Odd. In the short time he’s known the man, Dorian didn’t get the impression that Solas ever lacked the ability to speak.

A rock hits him in the side of the head, and Dorian nearly shouts in surprise. He glances over, scowling, to see Sera, Varric and Bull crouching in the trees—and he almost misses them, so low has the sun gotten on the other side of the island that there is barely any light to illuminate them.

They are gesturing furiously at him to hide with them.

“What are you doing?” he hisses as he squats beside them. Crammed between a sweaty Qunari and a sap-ridden tree.

Sera snorts. “ _Spying_ , obviously. You daft or what?”

“Why are we—”

Varric smacks him. “I have been waiting a month for this, you two shut it! I can’t hear a thing!”

“Ah,” Solas says, and shifts his weight, then clears his throat. “I was—things are—I should apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. And I should not have encouraged it.”

Dorian gapes.

Beside him, Sera groans and hands Varric a handful of coins while Bull grumbles, “About time.”

“Fuckin’ waste,” Sera gripes.

“ _Him_? But he’s—” Dorian gestures rather futilely up and down at Solas.

Varric shoves his arm out of the way. “I can’t _see_!”

“I did no such thing,” Solas is saying.

Dorian looks back just in time to see Aevalle sign, _Oh? Does it not count if it’s only Dream-Tongue?_

Sera claps her hand over her mouth to smother a mad cackle.

Dorian tries to stand up, but Bull’s hand on his shoulder keeps him down.

“Tongue?” Dorian hisses. “That— _fiend_. I’ll have him—”

“And here I thought he was the most boring man in the country. Shut up and watch, Sparkler.”

“It has been a long time. And things have always been easier for me, in dreams,” Solas continues. Aevalle starts to lean forward, her amusement clear in her body language, but he stops her with a gesture.

“I am… not certain this is the best idea,” he tells her, voice low.

Sera, Varric and Bull all groan.

“Seriously?”

“Come _on_.”

“ _Chuckles_!”

But Dorian isn’t paying attention because—oh. The heartbreak that crosses Aevalle’s face for just a moment—half a heartbeat, before she schools it—nearly breaks his in turn. Her hands move to sign, only to stop before she actually manages any words. They just—hang there, useless, until one of them goes to the wrappings about her throat.

Dorian tries to shake off the Qunari’s grip.

“No,” Solas says—and he rushes forward, taking hold of her hand between his. He curls his fingers around hers, drawing her touch away from the place she is marked by some mad creature, and into the air between them.

She stares up at him with wide eyes.

“Never think this is your fault,” he tells her. “That I would—that anyone should think you less, for what has been done to you. There are considerations, yes, but—any hesitation you see from me is not because of you. Never because of you.”

Her lips part. In the fading light, Dorian can see tears tracking down her face.

Solas cups her face in one hand. “I need a little time to think,” he assures her. “That is all.”

She nods, and they part. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, while Solas folds his behind his back.

“I am curious how you survived, this time,” he says, glancing toward the horizon, clearly allowing her a moment of privacy to compose herself. “I would not think Corypheus would make the mistake of failing to kill you twice.”

 _I don’t remember_ , she tells him. _One moment I was swimming away from the dragon, and it got me all on the side. And I was fading, and then…_

Solas tilts his head. “And?”

_I heard something. Like… someone was calling to me._

“Someone?”

She looks out to the ocean as the last rays of the sun fade away behind them. She signs something, but Dorian can’t see it.

“A little like… what?” Solas tries to follow her gaze, but doesn’t seem to see anything. “No, I _don’t_ hear that. What does it sound like? Aevalle?”

She does not answer him. Instead, she throws Vivienne’s dress over her head and shoves it in Solas’ arms.

“ _Lethallan_!” he protests as Aevalle runs into the sea.

“I thought we just dragged her ass out of there,” Sera says as they all watch Aevalle dive under the waves.

She leaps from the water some distance later, the gleaming bronze of her _vallaslin_ in this form catching every scrap of light the sky has left to offer, her blue scales black against the twilight sky.

And as Dorian looks ahead, following with his eyes the path she has taken, there is a faint green glow rising from the ocean floor.

Bull whistles. “I’ll be damned,” he says, squeezing Dorian’s shoulder hard. “I think she’s just found our ride.”

 

“Will someone explain to me,” Cassandra says, “why we are out in a rowboat in the middle of the night?”

The Iron Bull is rowing the boat in question—she finds the craft remarkably dry when not overburdened by far too many people—but he only grins in response. She is getting no help from Sera or Varric either, and Cullen is equally as mystified.

This is the _fourth_ time she’s asked for an explanation, and everyone is being stubbornly secretive.

“I think it’s better if we let Chuckles explain, Seeker,” Varric says, folding his arms.

“Again,” Cassandra says, “he is not _in_ the boat, so he cannot explain, whereas—”

Cullen leans over the side of the boat, rocking it enough to snap Cassandra’s jaw shut.

“What’s that glow?” he asks, frowning, before she can berate him.

Cassandra leans out to look, scowling. She sees nothing, however, and opens her mouth to chide Cullen for _seeing_ things when—

“There,” Cullen says, as some faint green light rises from the depths—like the swell of the tide, it brightens, and then fades away as she watches it.

Two silhouettes are suddenly illuminated, visibly rising from the water. One of them has two legs and two arms, and the other has fins and a tail.

Solas emerges from the water next to the boat, so silent that Cassandra probably wouldn’t notice him but for the moonlight reflecting off his head. He runs a hand over his face to shove the excess water off, then props himself up on the side of the boat by his arms.

“There you are!” comes a yell to her left—Cassandra glances behind her, and there is Dorian, swimming over to meet them. He allows Bull to pull him into the boat with a curse, raking his hand through his hair. “Thank you. Diving off to dark depths and leaving me alone to tread water—she’s still swimming about under us isn’t she.”

Solas laughs softly. The sound surprises Cassandra enough that she gawks at him rather openly—it seems… remarkably out of character for him.

He waves off Bull’s offer of aid into the boat, as if he prefers to remain mostly dangling in the water. “It is hardly our fault you can’t keep up with us, Master Pavus.”

Dorian mutters something in Tevene that Cassandra doesn’t understand. “He always this insufferable?”

“Yes,” Bull and Sera answer at the same time.

Aevalle rises from the water, propping herself up on the boat next to Solas with one smooth motion. She nearly tips the boat in doing so, before Bull shifts his weight to compensate.

Sera shrieks. Aevalle grins—she is still transformed, and her eyes are all pupil, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back in broad, eerie circles. But her scales are alight, glittering lapis and shimmering bronze, and she looks so utterly pleased with herself that Cassandra finds herself at ease, in spite of the… _strangeness_ of Aevalle’s other shape.

At least her teeth have not shifted, as well. She’s not certain she could handle that.

“The craft is intact,” Solas says, “though it has drained itself too much for a journey of any length.”

“It has also sunk,” Cullen says, “which I think would be the first obstacle in your plan.”

“It’s _supposed_ to sink,” Sera insists. “Let them finish!”

Solas inclines his head as silent thanks. “However, it is still operational, and the interior is certainly dry, should anyone wish to take a look.”

Aevalle signs something with a lopsided smile that Cassandra doesn’t quite understand. Something… swim…

“Though as she says, it’s… a bit of a swim.”

Cassandra glances past Aevalle, to where she knows the shadow of the craft lingers on the ocean floor.

“What sort of craft is it?” she asks, already stripping off her shirt. “And how does that help us, if it can’t even move?”

Cassandra tosses her shirt at her feet, and tries to ignore Aevalle, Sera and Bull staring blatantly at the hard lines of her stomach. She’s still wearing a breast band, it’s not as if she’s _indecent_ , she thinks, stripping off her pants.

“It appears to be ancient elvhen in make,” Solas explains, “although for what purpose I cannot say.”

“Goin’ places, probably,” Sera offers with a lopsided grin.

“Doesn’t do us much good if it can’t, though,” Varric says, crossing his arms.

Down to her smalls and breast band, Cassandra glances around and notices that Dorian has stripped down to his trousers, but no one else has. “Anyone else?”

“No,” Sera says quickly.

“Nah.” Bull leans back, dropping both arms off the boat to dangle his hands in the water. “I’m good.”

Varric doesn’t even respond, just leans both his hands over the side of the boat to trail his hands in the water.

She looks at Cullen, and he only clears his throat in response.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I’m in… no mood for a swim.”

“Shame,” Dorian quips. “Water’s lovely. Perfectly absent of bivalve covered ancient magisters.”

He dives back into the water, and resurfaces some distance away. With a sigh, Cassandra jumps in after him.

When she comes back up, it is to Dorian’s loud complaining. “Sloppy? _Sloppy_? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you would be critiquing my technique. Shall I climb out and try again?”

Cassandra glances over, blinking seawater out of her eyes. Aevalle is swimming circles around Dorian, barely making any ripples as she moves—nearly every inch of her glittering like a thousand gemstones in the moonlight as she does.

As she does a loop around Dorian, she signs something Cassandra doesn’t quite catch before carrying on to swim in a lazy arch towards Cassandra.

“Well I’ll endeavour to _splash less_ the next time, then, as it offends your delicate sensibilities.”

Aevalle dives. It is—difficult, to swallow down the instinctive surge of _fear_ she feels when her delicate fins brush against Cassandra’s legs, the movement of water around her indicating something large slipping through the depths.

She rises again, directly before Cassandra. The familiar lines of her _vallaslin_ turned from blue to polished bronze, even though most of the skin on her face does not shift. Dotted only by a few splatters of lapis blue scales, like so many freckles.

This close, Cassandra can see the hesitation in her features. The concern hidden in the corners of her smile.

 _Okay_? she signs, keeping it simple so Cassandra understands.

Cassandra lets go of the breath she’s been holding. “Yes,” she says.

Aevalle grins in return, and dives below the surface again.

They all follow—Cassandra and Dorian significantly slower than Solas, and even more so than Aevalle. She swims lazy circles around them as they descend, and the way that her scales catch the hazy moonlight from above makes her… spectre-like, almost. More of a glittering thing that the eye can’t quite make out the shape of, than specifically an elf with fins.

It’s not a very deep descent, just long enough to strain Cassandra’s lungs a bit. Solas reaches the ship first—and it’s hard to make out in the depths, though Cassandra sees a long, dark shape, with clean edges. Sitting upright, for all that it’s on the bottom of the ocean.

Aevale dives down next to him in a dizzying whirl of movement—it seems like Cassandra blinks and she is at his side. She presses her hands to the deck of the ship, on a place that looks perfectly nondescript to Cassandra, her body clearly shifting from scales to flesh as she does.

The whole ship lights up at her touch. Cassandra is just close enough to make out text on the ship’s hull—great runes carved into its surface, in a language she’s never seen before. They pulse, eerie and green, and the place Aevalle touches lights up before the ship simply—opens up. Circular panels lighting up, then spinning and sliding apart to reveal a pale green barrier shimmering underneath.

Aevalle and Solas drop through, and Cassandra and Dorian follow after.

The barrier offers no resistance whatsoever—in one moment, she is swimming, and the next she is falling through air.

She lands on her shoulder with a curse—nearly atop Dorian, who is in a similar state of confusion on the floor.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he hisses, clambering to his feet. He looks like he wants to complain more, but has to pause to catch his breath, bent over with his hands on his knees.

Solas offers Cassandra a hand up, and she takes it, breathing heavily while she squints into the relative dark of the place.

Overhead, the panels close up and the barrier dissipates, leaving them only with what little lights still glow inside the ship for illumination.

“Take your time,” Solas says between his own breaths.

She nods, slowly, trying not to dwell too long on the thought that their escape route has completely closed off.

As she recovers, she tries to look around—though what she sees, she simply has no frame of reference for. They are in some small room, and although she can see writing on the walls she cannot determine its purpose. The whole thing is smooth walls, dark surfaces made of some metal that almost looks like iron, but looks just off enough that it makes her uneasy.

Dorian is already standing and walking towards a small ladder—though she supposes he has been here before, if this is the craft they used to catch up to the Haven.

“Just as fascinating and indecipherable as the last time,” he says as he grabs both sides of the ladder. He slides down without even pausing. “Pity the entire written language of elvhen is lost to us, or we might be able to understand even a portion of what this thing does.”

“Not as lost as one might think, Master Pavus,” Solas says. “You might be surprised what one can learn if they only ask the right questions.” He gestures for Cassandra to go first. She follows Dorian down the ladder, trying not to shiver—it’s not particularly cold, but there’s something about the air in this place that feels…

… Alive.

Once she’s down the ladder, she follows Dorian and Solas down a narrow hallway, lit only by two lines of pale green on the floor. They don’t walk long—she thinks they’re moving closer to the center of the ship—before they enter a wide, circular room, that is lined all around with… well, some sort of table or desk, really. Stations for sailors, she presumes, as there is more writing and strange symbols she doesn’t recognise, all lit up in either green or red. Other than that, the room is completely bare of any furnishings, not even a place to sit.

Aevalle is standing in the center, stark naked, and a strange orb of green light hovers in the air before her.

“Ah,” Dorian says, “should have brought my shirt after all.”

She waves him off, focused instead on the light before her.

Solas clears his throat, and directs their attention to one of the stations that line the edge of the room. “I believe the answer to how Aevalle survived is over here,” he says.

Dorian follows like a moth drawn to a flame, his eyes alight with genuine curiosity. Aevalle is drawn away from the glowing orb rather reluctantly, Cassandra notes, but she follows them still.

Solas passes a hand over the runes carved into the metal. Similar to the orb at their back, the air before them lights up—and Cassandra gapes at a perfect copy of the ship they’re standing in, made of light, flickers into life in the thin air before them.

“How…?” she gapes, watching the green lines that make up the ship begin to turn from green, to yellow, to orange and then to red.

“What is this?” Dorian asks, leaning forward and squinting as if that will tell him anything. “A damage report?”

“I think so,” Solas says. “But, if you look closer…”

He touches one of the few lines that have remained green—if Cassandra is guessing right, it’s a representation of the glowing orb at their back—and the rest of the ship disappears. The green light grows, until a smaller copy of that glowing orb circles in front of them. A number of lines of text appear, with long rectangular boxes that are all mostly empty.

“There,” Solas says, pointing to a line of text at the bottom. “It is an elvhen word that means, roughly, ‘the curling tail that hides us from our enemy.’”

Dorian scowls at Solas. “You never said you could read a dead language.”

“I can read some of it. And you never asked.”

Dorian inclines his head. “Fair enough. So what, exactly, is it referring to?”

“At a guess? To the spirit that is powering this ship.”

“You mean demon,” Cassandra corrects.

That feeling in the air—a thick hum, almost like an intake of breath—makes the back of Cassandra’s neck itch.

Aevalle signs something, but Cassandra isn’t at a very good angle to see it.

“What do you mean, it _said_ it’s not a demon?” Dorian crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at her. “I was in this ship for hours and it never tried to speak with me, you’re here for fifteen minutes and suddenly it’s downright conversational?”

Aevalle shrugs.

“I do not think it _can_ speak with you. Or I, or anyone but Aevalle.” Solas approaches the center of the room, frowning down at the orb at the center with… genuine concern. “It is in such a poor state it is unable to confirm much about that, however.”

“But why Aevalle?” Cassandra asks, wandering away from the lit up display. She frowns down at the other workstations, trying to differentiate one from the other.

Aevalle signs and Dorian’s eyebrows go up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It told you that you are its… Captain?”

“A side effect of smearing your blood all over its hull when you were injured by the eel,” Solas says, not even looking up from the sphere in the center of the room, “Possibly. There is very old magic involved, and it has… changed through the ages. It is possible the spirit has forgotten its own nature, so long cut off from anything that might reinforce it.”

“Thus why it ran off when Corypheus graced us with his presence.” Dorian huffs, then turns back to squint at the writing on the secondary display. “The curling tail that hides us from our enemy… What do you think that means?”

“A long lost word that indicates its nature?” Solas straightens, meeting Dorian’s eye. “It is possible that the ancient elves interacted with spirits in ways we cannot properly understand.”

Cassandra pauses at one station, scowling down at the engravings in the metal there. Strange, she thinks, but it looks less like writing and more like… coastlines, islands. A map, clearly—but it does not seem to be one of Thedas as she knows it.

She glances back at the others to see Aevalle using a sign Cassandra has not seen. Her expression is strangely… sad.

Dorian stills at the sight of it, a little of his bravado falling. “A Keeper,” he says, softly.

Solas smiles, looking a little wistful. “I imagine that is an acceptable translation. Either way, I suspect that the spirit in this vessel was already predisposed with a protective or concealing nature—”

Dorian waves a hand in the air, a display of magic flying from his fingers that Cassandra thinks is a little too colourful to be entirely necessary.

Solas glances at Aevalle, rolling his eyes at the interruption. She hides her grin behind her hand.

The sparks of magic Dorian summoned converge above his hand, and begin to grow in size steadily—when they are roughly the size of a balled fist, the orb in the middle of the room begins to glow brighter.

Dorian raises a brow, watching the orb brighten each time he gathers more magic in the palm of his hand. Then, abruptly, Dorian snuffs out his magic between his hands. The orb’s light returns to normal.

“Suspicion confirmed,” Dorian says.

“Rather spectacularly,” Solas says, a sharp edge to his voice.

“Why the sour face?”

“You are overtaxing an already weakened spirit for no reason.”

“No reason? We have an answer to our question.” Dorian hooks his thumbs on his belt loops and leans forward to examine the orb more closely. “Your _spirit_ has an uncanny ability to hide the presence of magic. When the ship intervened in the dragon’s attack on Aevalle and fled, it also hid anything the magister might use to trace her.” Dorian inclines his head curiously. “It would also explain how a ship this large sat in a basement in Seahold for—however many ages—being possessed by a spirit and no one found out.”

Aevalle signs something with a smile.

Solas laughs. “Yes, I imagine the eel helped as well.”

There is that sensation again—that low hum she can feel in her bones. Cassandra grinds her teeth together, and tries to ignore it. She leans back and steadies herself on the surface behind her without thinking.

But the display on the new station only lights up—a mirror of the strange map carved on the surface below, hovering in the air, but this one has more detail on the continents. A blue line that must indicate water level, and a great detail of lines that must indicate its depth and the geography of underwater landscapes. But even if the coastlines aren’t the same…

“There,” Cassandra says, “these are the Frostbacks. That means if we follow them, we’ll see Seahold… here.”

Odd, she thinks, for that point on the map to be the same. But as she touches it, that portion of the map grows larger and takes up the whole display—and though the line of the coast is very different, she can see the spot of land the keep would sit on. Minus, perhaps, its sheltered cove and towering cliffs, which she can see indicated in a way that is almost as she knows them, below the blue line.

“Fascinating,” Dorian says, hovering over her shoulder. “That means the map is oriented with east on top. And, if that line there means what I think it means, that much more of Thedas was under water the time this map was made.”

“Val Royeaux, Denerim, Kirkwall…” She gestures until the map goes back to its default state. “The entire country of Rivain, a good half of Tevinter… It would all be completely submerged.”

“I can assure you,” Dorian quips, “in Kirkwall’s case that’s an improvement. What are those dots?”

In the part of the map that must be close to them, there is a cluster of dots of different colours. Cassandra touches them—it tickles her fingertip, a little—and the map grows again.

There is one green dot—stationary, and on an area that, according to the map, should be completely submerged. There are a number of other dots, of varying colours and sizes, and they are nearly all in motion. Some distance away—well within sight of a signal flare of any kind—there are two large blue dots, moving on a line that would take them on the same route the _Haven_ was taking, before the storm.

“Aevalle,” Cassandra asks, “are those ships?”

Aevalle confers with the… _spirit_.

“The spirit says that it has determined those ships are no threat,” Solas interprets as Aevalle signs. “It has no further information to offer us.”

“Inquisition ships,” Cassandra says, “they must be. If this map is to scale, and those ships are where it says they are...”

“They should be,” Solas assures her.

It’s Dorian who follows her train of thought first. “Then we are well within range of a signal flare. _Especially_ a magical one. But not for long, and they’ll have to actually be looking this way—”

“Aevalle,” Solas says, turning.

But she’s already running back down the hall towards the ladder.

 

“Two days,” Josephine is saying as the door to Leliana’s office swings open. The papers she carries with her are falling from her arms as she rushes in.

The Inquisition’s spymaster looks up from her correspondence with a single raised brow. “One and a half,” she corrects, knowing the light of the sun is barely a sliver on the horizon without having to find an east facing portion of the keep to confirm it. “It is too early for the ships to have returned, Josie.”

The ambassador is pacing now, wringing her hands. “We should have sent more,” she says. As she turns, Leliana sees that she has only applied liner to one of her eyes, and not the other.

Leliana decides not to mention it.

“The ravens from the two ships we _did_ send should be arriving within the hour,” the spymaster says, returning her gaze to the papers on her desk. “We will know if the others have succeeded then, and not a moment before.”

Josephine tosses her hands in the air. “What if they never made it?” she exclaims, rushing forward to stand before Leliana’s desk. “What if the storm killed them all? What if that strange ship drowned them all and they’re still in that awful underground harbour, bloated and—”

“Josie,” Leliana says—with more alarm than she means to come across. But she rises, and rounds the desk to catch her friend’s hands in her own, when Josie begins to pull at the seams of her delicate gloves. “All these things are out of your control.”

“Letting her go was not,” the ambassador says. “That poor girl came to us for sanctuary, and I just—I just let some magister waltz in and take her.”

Leliana squeezes her hands. “We all did, Josie. You can’t beat yourself up over this.” When her friend opens her mouth to protest, Leliana fixes her with a firm look. “Enough. Have you done what I asked?”

Josephine breathes several ragged breaths, in and out, before she is at least somewhat composed. “Yes. I have gone over the rest of the correspondence the Altus Pavus and Alexius provided us. I believe several of them are written in code, and I have them—”

Leliana is forced to let her hands go, so Josie may go through the papers she dropped on the floor upon entering the room. When she bends, Leliana can see that she is wearing mismatched shoes under her petticoats.

She wonders if she is not a terrible friend—for not comforting her. For not saying, _I feel the same. I have not slept—I am frightened we’ve lost them all._

“—here,” she finishes, rising. “Though I don’t know what good they’ll do without the cipher.”

Leliana takes the mess of papers offered her, and taps them on her desk to settle them into a neat stack. “I will see what I can do. With luck, they’ll offer us some idea of what this Elder One plans. Anything else?”

Josie lowers her gaze. There is one more page on the floor, trapped between the door and the wall. She picks it up, slowly, and attempts to smooth out the crease on the wall.

“It’s not what you asked, but—” she exhales, slowly. “It implies some relation between the disappearance of clan Lavellan and the Duke of Wycome. Some… connection between him and these Venatori.” She holds it out for Leliana to take.

She does, frowning.

Josie folds her hands before her. “I have sent word to one Lady Guinevere Volant. She is well-connected there, and has been made delicate inquiries on my behalf before. If she agrees, she will be visiting Wycome in my stead, to see what she can learn there.”

Leliana gives her a reassuring smile. “I will have my people make inquiries, as well.”

“Thank you,” Josephine says, just as the sound of footsteps comes echoing up the stairwell.

They both turn to face the open door as one of Leliana’s scouts bursts in, panting for breath. “My lady!” she says, clutching the doorframe. “My lady, the ships you sent, they’ve returned.”

“Returned?” Leliana and Josephine share a look—Leliana’s fierce, Josephine’s utter confusion.

“What do you mean?” the ambassador asks. “We were merely expecting a raven at this hour.”

“They’re towing another ship between them,” the scout answers, straightening now that she’s caught her breath a little.

“The _Haven_?” Leliana presses. “What could have happened to it?”

The scout only shakes her head. “It’s… not the _Haven_.”

Josephine shoves her way past the scout. Lelliana attempts to follow, but the scout catches her arm on the way through.

“Miss Leliana, there’s one more thing…”

She tries her best not to snap. “You’ll understand if my patience on hearing this is a little thin at the moment.”

The scout hesitates. “It’s a little crazy.”

Leliana rolls her eyes, yanks her arm away, and follows Josephine down the stairs.

“Ah—wait!”

She ignores her, resisting the urge to break out into a run in order to catch up.

She finds Josephine on the battlements, leaning over them and squinting into the distance, trying to see something in the light of early, early morning.

“That’s the ship,” she says, “the one Mister Solas and the others took. But there’s something else… oh it just jumped out of the water. A fish? No, it’s too big. A halla?”

Leliana narrows her eyes, but cannot make out the smaller figure swimming alongside the elven vessel—even at this distance, she can make out its sleek shape. It is being towed between the two large steam powered ships that she and Josephine sent out at first opportunity, freighters meant for hauling cargo more than true warships.

“Is that someone on the deck of the small one?” she asks, accepting a spyglass from one of the lookouts.

“If Miss Leliana will confirm, I believe it is Mister Solas, Mister Iron Bull, Mister Tethras, Warden Blackwall, the Lady Vivienne, Miss Sera, Commander Cullen and Lady Pentaghast, along with some others I’m afraid I don’t recognise. Tevinter, ma’am.”

She brings the glass to her eye. She spots the Altus Pavus immediately, and the Altus Alexius at his side. Mister Pavus seems to be shouting at something in the water, waving his arms in the air rather dramatically. Cassandra and Cullen look in turns mortified and amused, while most of the others seem to be laughing at…

She directs her glass to the figure swimming in the water, in time to see it leap.

And then she has to watch it a second time. Then a third, to be certain.

It’s… impossible. Isn’t it?

“What?” Josephine asks. “What is it? Leliana, what do you see? Are they safe? Is Miss Lavellan with them? Is she hurt?”

She hands the glass over, wordlessly. Josephine takes it and presses it to her eye—

And then gapes, unable to speak, for a good five minutes.

“Oh no,” she says, finally. She says it several more times, in fact, before Leliana starts laughing.

“This isn’t funny!” she cries, which only makes Leliana cover her face with her hand. “How am I—they need to get her back in that boat right this instant! Oh, how many people have _seen_ this? How am I supposed to hide this if she swims up to the keep covered in scales and fins and— _oh no_.”

“I suspect,” Leliana says, putting a gentle hand on Josephine’s shoulder, “that the cat is out of the bag. Thoroughly.”

She hears footsteps approaching, and the distinctive caw of a very familiar raven.

“This is a disaster,” Josephine is saying. Still, Leliana notes, staring through the spyglass. “I mean she’s— _stunning_ , like that, but this is an absolute _disaster_.”

“Miss Leliana,” a scout interrupts. “It’s—”

“Baron Plucky,” she coos, keeping all the unease from her voice as she turns to accept the raven. He transfers quite pleasantly, settling upon her forearm to accept whispered praise and her fingers smoothing the feathers atop his head.

She waits until he is satisfied to take the message from its little sleeve on his leg.

“I mean I suppose we could just laugh, every time someone brings it up,” Josephine is saying, as Leliana reads the coded message. “Just say, ‘Oh that’s _absurd_ ,’ and carry on without ever confirming or denying it. That could work for… a month, let’s say. A month would give me a suitable story. Unless—Leliana, do you think she can’t change back? Do you think that magister changed her and now she’s stuck like some—”

“She better,” Leliana says, raising her hand to rub the bridge of her nose. “It will be difficult to discreetly drag a mermaid through the streets of Val Royeaux.”

Josephine stalls. “What? Why on earth would we take her to Val Royeaux?”

“Because,” Leliana says, “the Divine has requested her presence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God guys I'm sorry this took like, forever. @_@ I'd make promises about the next one not taking as long but... yeah.
> 
> SO FULL DISCLOSURE. I have made many references to work being very demanding of my time as of late (I swear the only reason I got this finished at all is because I went on vacation, like physically left the province so I could have some free time) and it's only going to get worse from here on out, sadly, as one of my coworkers is leaving and we've been unable to replace her. So don't panic, I still love this story and have all the plans for it, I still love and get so so so thrilled that everyone is still so interested in it, it's just that I have considerably less free time than I used to.
> 
> TLDR; I'm pastry chef now and I am so so busy but I love you all and I love this fic don't panic
> 
> New fanart this round: check out this AMAZING [mollusc-covered Corypheus from m-periwinkle](https://m-periwinkle.tumblr.com/post/148103239382/corypheus-from-dinoswrites-black-coral-an), and [some wonderful mermaid Aevalle from bloodwrit](http://bloodwrit.tumblr.com/post/147603261765)!
> 
> Also further hilarity from my lovely beta and partner in crime, [valyrias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias).
> 
>  **[unseeliequeens](http://unseeliequeens.tumblr.com/)**  
>  u know if [redacted] draws this, she will have to draw four attractive people in varying states of undress. that would be a glorious day
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  at halamshiral: "so..... you're a mermaid, huh?" "yeah." "nice." "thanks." "yeah."


	14. This Ancient Thing

The hall that leads to the underground dock is not nearly as empty as the last time Solas passed through.

It has only been a week, but most of the silt has been cleared out, so his bare toes brush against smooth stone with every step. The smell has diminished considerably—the dead molluscs have been scraped off the walls, and everywhere Solas looks there are soldiers and servants alike scrubbing down every surface, cleaning ages of decay off the walls.

In the yellow light of oil lanterns, he can make out the remnants of ancient mosaics that used to adorn the walls—outlines where there were once golden settings or delicate tiles. But their precise shapes are indistinguishable even by Solas’ sharp eyes, and any hope he had for their restoration is lost when he sees their condition.

His thoughts are interrupted by hurried footsteps, and by someone calling his name.

“Mister Solas!”

It’s not a voice he recognises. He pauses, turning to see a dwarven woman running down the hall to catch up with him. He does not recognise her, but she wears the uniform of the Inquisition’s army—sleeves rolled up, soap bubbles slipping down her arms as she runs.

“Mister Solas,” she says again, when she catches up to him. Then she pauses and salutes, sharp lines and an eager smile that puts Solas a little at ease. “Naev Cadash, sir. They tell me you saved my brother’s life when the _Haven_ went down.”

Solas blinks, trying to recall—“Punctured lung and compound leg fracture, I believe?”

She nods. “Just wanted to thank you, sir. As I understand it, you really took a risk, outing yourself as a mage like that. But Emmis—that’s my brother—and I, we used to be Carta before we joined up. I’ve got friends I still write letters to that owe me some favours. So you just let me know if you run into any trouble, and we’ll get you out nice and quiet.”

He can’t help but raise his brows. It’s… a strange conversation for a crowded hallway, but even so he finds a grateful smile works its way to his lips. “Thank you,” he says, inclining his head.

She only nods before returning to her duties.

Wooden stairs have been built that lead down to the lichen-covered floor—uncleared as of yet, still soft and spongy underfoot but trampled considerably by the heavy boots of those carrying equipment, tools, and worktables down into the dock area.

Solas does not walk unnoticed through all the activity—he is stopped six more times by soldiers who thank him for saving their lives, or those of their friends, and once by a demure servant with a telltale roundness of stomach and tears in her eyes.

“They said you tried to help,” she manages to say before she bursts into tears, and a friend rubs circles on her back.

He cannot manage a response before she is led away, sobbing. He stands there watching her go, clutching his books a little tighter and his mouth hanging open, waiting for the right words to simply appear.

He is understandably unsettled before he reaches the high cliff wall that sits above the ship itself, where Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine are all gathered around a large wooden table that has been brought down from storage. It was made of driftwood, Solas thinks, one large tree probably felled from somewhere in Orlais before it was swept up by the ocean, and from its size he is surprised they even managed to bring it all the way down.

“We probably have only another few days before the summons is made official,” Josephine is saying as he approaches, “then four more days before the raven would arrive at Seahold. At which point we must be seen rushing Miss Lavellan to the Divine with all possible haste.”

“Or,” Cullen interrupts, “we could simply refuse to send her. There’s no guarantee Corypheus will not attack again, and since the _Haven_ was so defenceless against it, sending any of our other ships is suicide.”

Josephine sighs. “We cannot hide her in this fortress forever, Cullen. And if we fail to heed the Divine’s summons, then the Inquisition will be seen as breaking from the Chantry, and Corypheus would be the least of our problems.”

“If we simply explained the situation to her,” Cassandra says, “then perhaps she would withdraw…?”

Leliana only shakes her head. “By the time the raven arrived, she will have made her intentions known to the Revered Mothers, if she has not done so already. We can only hope we have made good use of the time her warning bought us.” She glances up as Solas approaches the table, and the others follow her gaze. “On that note,” she says, “what have you learned, Solas?”

He inclines his head by way of greeting. “You understand,” he begins, opening his notebook and making a show of flipping through pages, “that the elvhen language is, for all that the Dalish attempt to preserve it, utterly forgotten in this day and age. Scholar though I might be, understand that a direct translation is difficult, with a language focused more on metaphor than on literal meaning. Keeping in mind that I lack the specialized knowledge regarding the construction of the vessel in question—”

Cassandra holds up a hand. “Your best guess is better than ours, Solas,” she says. “Please.”

He glances over the Inquisition’s senior staff. Josephine, as always, appears polite and attentive, and he thinks their personal relationship still easy enough not to worry overmuch about scrutiny from her. He thinks he notes wariness in Cullen’s gaze, though no more than he would expect from that of an ex-templar to a recently revealed apostate. Leliana is schooling it well, but he does not think he is imagining the suspicion behind her polite smile—tempered, he thinks, by what he can offer, and the lives he has already saved.

“Very well,” he says, allowing himself to look a little bashful. He draws his finger down the page of the book, as if gathering his thoughts. “The inscriptions on the mosaics here have been of little use, unfortunately. They have been damaged either by the tide or the local fauna, and are utterly untranslatable despite my best efforts. However, some of the information provided by the spirit powering the vessel—”

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen mutters under his breath.

“—indicate that it has been regaining some functionality since its awakening. However, the spirit has informed Miss Lavellan that many of its mechanisms have been either utterly damaged or were never installed in the first place.”

“Hang on,” Cullen interrupts. “This is a… spirit powered vessel, as you say…”

“To call it _powered_ by the spirit is…” At Cullen’s impatient look, Solas stops himself. “Yes.”

“I am familiar with the power a demon— _spirit_ —can possess. What I don’t fully understand is how it could possibly… run out.”

“There are two things that affect the amount of power that might be accessed by any given spirit: the emotion or concept it represents, and its presence in the hearts and minds of those surrounding it.” Solas folds his hands behind his back and straightens his shoulders. “Simply put, the spirit in question was formed from a desire to protect or conceal someone, or something. Those who bound it to the vessel sought to take advantage of its nature, but when the fortress was abandoned and the ship forgotten, there was no one present to help it reinforce precisely what that nature is.”

“All that time alone,” Josephine muses. “That’s… it is hard to believe it didn’t go mad.”

“Demons do not _go mad_ ,” Cullen corrects.

Solas shifts his weight, uncomfortable. “I would say they become corrupt, but yes, Ser Rutherford, that is precisely what they do. What you call demons—desire, rage, pride—they are all spirits whose initial purpose has become twisted. This particular spirit became dormant when the vessel began to draw too much power from it, to better preserve itself. No unbound spirit would have been able to do this. It awoke when Sera, Miss Lavellan and I stumbled upon it.”

“How much power _does_ it have?” Cassandra asks.

Cullen narrows his eyes at her as Solas answers, “When the altus Pavus and I asked if it believed it could make the trip to Val Royeaux and back without detection, Miss Lavellan reported that the spirit believes it could do so seven times on its current reserves without replenishing them, as long as it were not called to use any of its combat functions.”

Josephine’s eyebrows shoot up, Cullen looks at Solas as if he’s just started speaking another language, Leliana tilts her head to the side, and Cassandra blinks owlishly.

“Combat functions?” Leliana asks, after a long silence.

Solas only shrugs. “When we asked, it only said that they were not entirely operational, and had never been tested, so they drain its power too much for a demonstration.”

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen breathes. “Cassandra, you can’t be thinking what I think you are.”

She does not quite look at him. “We are out of time and options,” she says, though she still looks unsettled. “Is that everything, Solas?”

“That is all I have learned.”

“Thank you,” she says, turning her attention back to Cullen.

Formally dismissed, Solas makes his way back out of the vast underground harbour.

A number of clouds obscure the afternoon sun, and Solas thinks the air smells like rain. Feels like it as well—there’s a dampness on the air that seeps into his bones, into all the joints overworked from standing and pacing too long into the night. Attempts made in his books at translating what little text could be salvaged from the walls of the ancient harbor, to appear as if he has been working all night instead of…

Well. Instead of thinking.

“Chuckles!” comes the shout from over his shoulder, and Solas turns and pauses long enough to let Varric catch up to him. They begin the descent towards the harbour together, their steps falling beside one another’s easily enough, and the smile Solas gives Varric in return for the greeting is entirely genuine, if a little troubled.

When did that happen, he wonders.

“Thought for a while you weren’t going to make it in time to wish our Tevinter saviours a fond farewell.”

“My report to Cassandra took less time than I expected,” he admits as they pass beneath the archway over the road leading down to the harbour.

The Seahold harbour is protected by a wide circle of tall cliffs that bar passage to even the most skilled climbers. There is artillery mounted on the most passable of them, accessible only by age-old tunnels dug into the mountains from the main keep, and signal fires meant for alerting those within the keep proper of any approaching armadas.

Seahold itself had been abandoned for some time—the Inquisition only came to reside her about a year past, when the tensions in Halamshiral devolved into a full-scale civil war in Orlais. With Ferelden on the brink of swooping in, possibly out of a sense of revenge for the Orlesian occupation decades past, and growing tensions within the Circles and poorer districts of the cities alike, the Divine had declared the Inquisition reborn. Now, here resides an army that follows her will alone, and with it a navy that is rapidly growing to the greatest Thedas has ever seen.  

Any safe harbour in such tumultuous times is a welcome haven for merchant ships, and Seahold is no exception. The docks are bustling, and it takes considerable effort not to lose Varric in the crowd. He has to adjust his vest a number of times, pulling down the faded green fabric as he is jostled and shoved more than once. Though the afternoon air is chilling with the impending rain, there are so many _people_ that Solas finds himself adjusting his collar, checking to see it is still in place for the press of bodies around him. All around him are the colour and aroma of exotic spices, fish of every size and shape pulled from the depths, the shine of gems and treasures from all corners of the world, and everywhere money being passed hands, children running underfoot while laughing.

It does not help that he does not pass unnoticed. All around him there are soldiers, or family of soldiers, who shout for his and Varric’s attention—applauding their efforts, by and large.

Varric takes it all in greater stride than Solas. He is… still not certain what to do with all this attention directed at himself.

Solas spots Bull before he sees the rest of them; his horns poke out above the crowd, and soon after his deep voice rises above the noise, though the specifics of what he’s saying is lost.

Eventually the crowd parts, making way by necessity—there are too many Inquisition soldiers moving to and fro for there to be any other foot traffic here—and Solas sees Aevalle and the others standing, speaking with Felix Alexius. He doesn’t see Dorian Pavus, but Solas doubts he will have much longer to wait before the man announces his presence.

_Are you sure you’re feeling well enough?_ Aevalle is asking as they approach. Solas notes that her hands are shaking, slightly. _We have doctors here, too, and Solas is better than any healer in Tevinter. Really._

Felix only smiles patiently as her signing tapers off. His skin has lost significant colour, Solas notes, and there are dark circles under his eyes that are not due to exhaustion alone.

“Someone has to manage my father’s affairs,” Felix tells her gently. “All reports indicate he hasn’t returned to Tevinter, and I doubt he would. The Venatori would hang him for failing them. And besides!” He turns to gesture at the waiting ship and the sailors hurrying around them. “I can’t refuse such a generous escort home, can I?”

“You old man almost did,” Varric says, by way of announcing their presence. “Look where that got him! Probably still floating in the middle of the ocean somewhere, wishing he’d picked some other Dalish girl to kidnap.”

Felix actually smiles at that—a little wistfully, Solas thinks. “If I know my father,” he says, “he’ll turn up someday.”

“Cheer up,” Bull interrupts, smiling. “He’s done all the damage he can.”

“Yeah,” Varric offers. “Thanks to you and Sparkler, we don’t have to worry about any more potential wars with Tevinter over one measly mermaid.” He pauses, and blinks. “Which is a real sentence I have spoken out loud. Can you believe it?”

“We all owe you our thanks,” Solas says, coming to stand beside Aevalle. She smiles up at him, and he can see the tension in her shoulders ease a little.

Her hand hangs next to his in the air between them—he feels her skin brush against his, and he wonders if she is waiting for him to take it. To offer her some comfort.

He pretends he hasn’t noticed, and offers her a smile instead.

He looks at Felix. “Without your intervention, and that of Mister Pavus, Aevalle would never have reached us in the first place. To think that she would still be in Corypheus’ clutches…” He shakes his head, slowly, then extends his hand. “She is well regarded, here. Suffice to say, we are grateful.”

Felix takes his offered hand and shakes it, looking a little bashful. His grip is firm, for one in his condition. “I’d like to say that any decent person would do the same, but sadly…”

“You had the influence and ability to help, and you chose to use it where you could, at great risk to yourself. That is no small thing, Mister Alexius.”

“I should be thanking you, not the other way around,” Felix says. “When Dorian sent word that Aevalle’s ship never reached Kirkwall, I feared the worst. We came here expecting to find her utterly without allies, let alone friends willing to go as far as you did to help her.”

_Guess I’m just lucky like that_ , she signs.

“Speaking of,” Varric interrupts, “where is Sparkler? Don’t tell me he’s getting all emotional and refusing to say goodbye.”

The man in question does not so much drift into the conversation as much as he plows into it—shoving through the crowd behind them, his voice rising over the din of conversation and moving bodies. “I’m sorry, were you under the impression I was leaving?”

Solas turns, frowning, and Dorian takes advantage of the gap that’s been made to plant himself between Solas and Aevalle. “I don’t understand how _that_ got around—you Southerners circulate such nasty rumours.”

Aevalle’s expression is in equal turns surprised and relieved. _You’re staying?_

“You thought I would just let you gallivant about the globe unsupervised? What a poor chaperone that would make me!” He tugs at the bottom of his finely embroidered vest, settling his clothing back into pristine order after shoving his way through the crowded docks. “I’m afraid you’re still stuck with me, whether it’s in Kirkwall or this _charming_ little spot on the coast. Though I won’t lie, the air here is a _vast_ improvement.”

“Yeah,” Varric says, with a touch of fondness, and leaves it at that.

Someone shouts from the ship behind Felix—Solas glances up to see the men have mostly boarded, and they are waiting for their final passenger.

“I’ll write,” Felix begins to say, but is interrupted by Aevalle throwing herself at him.

She throws her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shirt. Felix hesitates half a heartbeat—the simple friendliness of his expression replaced for one moment with such heartbreak that Solas finds himself looking away as Felix returns the embrace.

The captain continues to yell while Dorian, Felix and Aevalle say their goodbyes. It’s not until the captain calls a fourth time, with a strained voice, that Felix finally takes his leave—carrying nothing, his hands in his pockets, coat and necktie buffeted by the ocean breeze.

He drops the hands of his friends. “Take care of each other,” he tells them, turning to go.

“I would, if _someone_ would stop needlessly rushing off to her death and giving me a heart attack!” Dorian quips. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he shouts after Felix’s back, “And you! If you pull any more ridiculous stunts or rescue missions, I’ll throttle you myself! You hear?”

Felix only raises one hand in acknowledgement—not looking back as he walks down the dock, to the ship that will take him back to Tevinter.

 

The days that follow Felix’s departure are too busy for Aevalle to fall into any true melancholy.

Solas finds himself swept away from her at most junctures—though he feels an urge to be at her side, to protect her from this new wave of scrutiny from those around her, one of the others are always at her side. Bull, most frequently, as he has taken to calling himself her bodyguard to anyone who asks (or, honestly, just happens to be in the vicinity when there is a lull.)

Dorian seems to be his near-constant company—if not complaining about having caught some utterly made up “southern illness” that Solas absolutely _must_ heal, then they are working side by side in examining the spirit ship, trying to ensure it will properly function for the voyage that Cullen still insists they are not taking.

He finds Dorian… _abrasive_ , at first.

“So you are a painter,” the man says, while Solas is attempting to compare a diagram of an engine component the ship provided to the actual thing. Which, incidentally, is a mess of gears, pistons he’s certain were _not_ supposed to be there in the first place, and—interestingly enough—the bones of an ancient fish. Some ancestor to the modern salmon, perhaps.

Solas squints, trying to use his fingers to pry the smaller bones out of the machinery. They’ve jammed up more or less everything in this small section. “I have some renown for my artistic abilities, yes.”

“And you are also an expert in a dead language?”

He loses his grip on one of the bones, and smacks his knuckles on the hard metal casing. Biting back a curse, he shakes his hand out. “Am I not permitted to have hobbies?”

Dorian hums thoughtfully. Solas spares a glance back at the other man, who is perched on top of whatever piece of machinery he is supposed to be inspecting for flaws. The one Aevalle has told them either keeps the air a comfortable temperature, or actually in the ship. Even the spirit isn’t certain which.

“Of course you are. It’s just that most hobbies I’ve heard of tend to be… oh, I don’t know—believable?” Dorian rests his chin on his hand and narrows his eyes at Solas. “How _precisely_ did you learn a language that no one alive speaks today?”

“No one alive,” Solas prompts, bending down to examine the fish skeleton again, “or no one of flesh and blood?”

There is a pause, as Dorian seems to consider that.

“Well, I suppose we are sitting in a spirit-possessed submersible _boat_ , so the idea isn’t all that outlandish. Though I’ve never met a spirit that’s been inclined to teach me the ways of the ancient sea-dwelling elves.”

Solas finally manages to pull out the offending bone. He holds it up to the light, making certain it has not fractured further in its removal. Pausing to admire this ancient thing, preserved in some form for all this time.

“Then I doubt you were asking the correct questions,” he says, tucking the bone away with the others he has recovered. “Or the correct spirits.”

Later, once they have paused to eat dinner—long gone cold, forgotten as they worked—Dorian asks, “Do you think this was a prototype of some sort?”

Solas looks up from his cold, yet satisfying, stew. Dorian is looking thoughtfully at their surroundings, illuminated by the soft green glow of the runes and the flicker of their oil lantern.

“What do you mean?”

He waves a hand, vaguely, at the ship—at its impossibly smooth walls, delicately streamlined shapes. “I simply mean that it seems so… unfinished. There is nowhere for a crew to sleep, or eat, or even sit. There are some work stations, but the information they offer is usually utterly different than what we really find. But it’s such a vast place for a dock, down here…”

Solas inclines his head. “You are wondering if this was the only ship of its kind.”

Dorian leans his head against the wall at his back, his food utterly untouched.

“If it wasn’t,” he says after another long silence, “then what happened to all the others?”

“I cannot answer that,” Solas says.

“Of course you can’t,” Dorian replies. “I don’t actually think you have all the answers, you know.”

And somehow, after hours of theoretical conversation, their talk moves from _why do you suppose it can only speak with Aevalle_ , to what might have gone wrong with some of the spells that allow the ship to function after so long alone in the dark. Dorian proves to have a sharp mind, suprising Solas with a number of theories and spells that he thinks might actually work, given the correct application.

The _correct_ application, however, seems to be key.

“Strange, that should have worked.” Solas pauses to consider the runes in question, still utterly inactive in the face of Dorian’s attempt at a spell. “Have you considered delaying your draw on the reservoir as the wave recedes?”

“Ah,h yes., I tried that, but it snapped back in my face and then my mouth tasted of mint and tomatoes.”

“Interesting.” Solas leans forward, examining the runes that appear to have been partially finished on one lower section of the ship. “Did you compensate for the phase of the moon?”

“Phase of the—what do you take me for, some simple tide mage? This is an old Tevinter technique—”

“That was used first in _Elvhenan_.”

“As you keep saying! I have heard that more times in the last day than I have anything else! And yes, I did, matter of fact, adjust my draw for the phase of waning we happen to be in, and before you ask I allowed for the applicable pull for high tide. And still the whole thing spat back up in my face like an infant.”

A throat clears behind them. They both turn, and Cassandra and Leliana are standing there, each holding a delicate tea cup with steaming coffee. Leliana eyes them with an amused expression, and Cassandra is clearly trying and failing to look unimpressed.

“That would be because it is sunrise, and not midnight,” Leliana informs them.

Solas blinks, honestly surprised. He reaches for the pull of the ocean just beyond the metal hull and finds that she is… not wrong.

“Bless your fine southern hospitality,” Dorian exclaims, rising and taking the coffee from Leliana’s hand without skipping a beat.

“Have you two been at this all night?” Cassandra asks, exasperated.

Dorian downs the coffee in one gulp, and does not respond.

Shortly after, they are kicked out and ordered to get some rest, lest they, as Dorian so soundly puts it...

“Convince the ship to murder us all in our sleep?” Dorian complains, loudly, as he easily keeps pace with Solas’ brisk stride. “Accidentally loosen a screw and drown us all? Ha! I hardly think a few hours sleep makes any difference on _that_ front, do you?”

“I agree,” Solas says, squinting as they walk out of the dark hall and into daylight. “It is nothing short of a miracle the spirit did not corrupt over the ages. If it wished to kill us all, it would have done so by now.”

Dorian snorts. “Cheerful, aren’t you.”

They part ways in the courtyard, Dorian citing the need for more coffee, and Solas climbs up to the battlements without really paying attention to where his feet are taking him.

It’s… habit now, to look for her up here first. Even though he knows the sun is too high in the sky for her to be lingering here, waiting around as if they could still take their morning walks and run errands uninterrupted. As if nothing has changed.

Is it strange, to be nostalgic for the times when their biggest worries were the Qunari spy tailing them everywhere?

 

He finds Aevalle a few hours later, Krem helpfully directing him down the shore and away from Seahold.

“She went fishing, I think? She took a spear, anyway. Sera too, though I don’t know what help she’d be.”

He walks up the beach a while, past the soldiers and sailors of Seahold who are off duty, and the people of the town simply enjoying a dip in the cool ocean on these hot, late summer days.

In truth, he does not so much find Aevalle as he _hears_ Dorian.

“Yes, congratulations, you’ve found yourself a dead animal. Disgusting—what, exactly, are you going to do with it?”

As he rounds the bend, Solas can’t help a smile at the sight that awaits him—Sera, perched on a rock and giggling, while Aevalle walks out of the surf—stark naked, once again—an enormous seal slung over both her shoulders.

She huffs at Dorian in reply, lowering the carcass gently to the sand. She pauses to wring out her hair before trading her spear for the shirt Sera offers her and shoving her arms through the sleeves.

“Can you even _eat_ that?” Sera asks, leaning down and squinting at the animal. She makes as if to poke it with the end of Aevalle’s borrowed spear. “What does it taste like?”

Aevalle snatches the spear back before Sera can damage the fur, frowning.

“Like seal, if you can imagine,” Solas says, drawing their attention to him. “Pleasant enough, if you can get past all the fat.”

“Pleasant enough, he says,” Dorian parrots, taking the spear so she can button up her shirt. He holds it away from Sera, who sticks her tongue out at him. “Aevalle, I know the food here tastes like dust, but there’s really no need to go risking a repeated kidnapping by crazed ancient magisters to bring us samples of traditional Dalish cooking.”

She pauses in buttoning the shirt long enough to sign, _Keeper says he can’t get me here._

Dorian sends Solas a dry look.

Solas folds his hands behind his back as he stands next to Aevalle. “I believe there are ancient protection spells on the fortress and the area surrounding it—you can check yourself if you like, Lord Pavus. Even without the protection of the ship, I believe Corypheus would be hard pressed to attack here.” He glances down at the seal in the sand, and blinks when he sees where the killing blow landed. “Clean through the eye? I see you were not exaggerating your skill as a hunter.”

As always, his blatant flattery results in Aevalle straightening her back and beaming up at him.

“Vain creature,” Dorian accuses, while Sera makes a face. “And don’t look smug, you didn’t know what for certain when you went wandering out there—doing _what,_ exactly? Looking for a rustic, home cooked meal?”

She rolls her eyes at Dorian. _As much fun as I have frightening everyone with my bare breasts, I thought that it might be nice to have some clothing that isn’t going to be ruined every time I need to swim._

“Damn,” Sera grumbles under her breath. “Startin’ to get used to the show.”

Dorian, however, only makes a face. “And I _was_ looking forward to gracing you with my presence, but if you’re making leather I will be far away from _that_ , thank you very much. Well, in that case, the lovely Lady Pentaghast has instructed me to tell you that we will be leaving for Val Royeaux in your lovely submersible vessel at first light tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?” Solas asks, curiously.

Sera tilts her head to the side, considering. “Lookin’ to get there before the whole world hears she’s draggin’ you in?”

“It is possible,” he concedes.

Aevalle runs a hand through her hair, and glances behind her back out to sea. Not precisely in the direction of Orlais, but her thoughts have turned that way if the pensive turn of her lips is any indication.

“Hey,” Sera says, lightly punching Aevalle’s arm to snap her out of her thoughts. “If anything goes funny, all you have to do is get back to the boat. And we’ll sink it in the harbour and have a big laugh as they swim down and bang on the hull like idiots, yeah?”

Dorian lets out a short laugh. “You know,” he says, “I think I would actually enjoy that. Just to get those Orlesians flustered and wet.”

Sera giggles, slipping off her perch on the rock. “Soaking wet!”

“Petticoats in utter disarray!” Dorian gestures as he turns to walk back up the beach, Sera following along at his side. “Masks askew, complaining about the ruined polish on their shoes.”

Solas and Aevalle watch them go, each trying to amuse the other more by imitating the dismayed protests of Orlesian nobles. When he turns back, Aevalle’s smile is a little wry, but the distance in her gaze has been chased away at least.

“It’s not a terrible plan,” Solas admits, at length.

Aevalle’s eyebrows shoot up. _You, agreeing with Sera_? she teases, eyes bright. _What is the world coming to?_

He laughs a little, low in his chest. “It… needs work, certainly.”

She shakes her head at him. She sways a little—as if trying to move closer. As if she will step forward, as she did in their shared dream, as if there is nothing between them.

The waves rise and recede—she catches herself, at the crest of the motion, and withdraws with the ocean, pulling away from the shore.

He pretends not to have noticed, and she busies herself with the animal carcass. She will not have time to prepare the hide now, he knows, and she’ll be lugging it back whole to sit in a cold room until she returns.

“Cassandra may also be attempting to avoid another attack,” he says, to fill the silence. “If we arrive before the Divine has made her _official_ request for your presence, then it is less likely Corypheus will be able to have his people intercept us in the city.”

She stands, slinging the animal over both her shoulders once more as she does. She raises a brow and tilts her head at him, and he realises he’s… staring a little. It is not a small seal.

He clears his throat, roughly. “Although I think I can help,” he says, falling into step beside her; her footprints in the surf, and his on the drier sand just above. “If you would permit me. I would like to accompany you under guise of your interpreter—I believe I can persuade Cassandra of the necessity, so long as you agree.”

The smile she offers him is relieved. She nods, and he feels some of the weight lifted off his chest.

He ends up helping her carry the seal—as determined as she is to do it herself, her limbs start to tremble after some time walking with it. He uses a spell to lighten the load a little, since the entire _keep_ knows he’s a mage now, so _really_.

She is curious, naturally, even though with arms full of animal carcass she can’t ask him. But he tells her anyway—about the spell itself, how one might perform it. Though she is not a mage, she seems to follow what he is saying easily enough—but he notes she is far more interested when he begins to speak of the spirit who taught it to him. A minor trickster spirit, whose favourite prank was to make things heavier or lighter than they seemed.

And she is smiling again, by the time they reach the town—shoulders shaking in silent laughter, the soft ocean breeze tossing her hair over her shoulder as it dries in the afternoon sun.

_I thought you died_ , he almost says. Seeing her so alive, walking alongside and speaking with her as if nothing has changed. _I thought I lost you_.

And that is… in itself, a revelation he’s not ready for. He said it to Wisdom, days ago, wracked in grief and guilt and the colossal weight of all his failures. He’d acknowledged that she was _real_. But then she returned, lapis scales and all, and he has been avoiding dealing with… _her_. How prepared he was, to abandon everything he has built, for her—first on the beach, when she would not know, then after the fight with the eel, and then Alexius had the gall to take her away and—

He should be concerned with how deep his affections run for her. How a brush of her lips against his in dreaming is enough to send him spinning, to turn up his sleeve and show her the handkerchief stashed there. What would happen, he wonders, if she reached out to tug at it? Would he even stop her?

He is not entirely certain, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I can explain and I'll make it quick:
> 
> 1\. I bought a condo because apparently I'm an adult now
> 
> 2\. Work nearly ate me alive but I made it out okay (sort of)
> 
> *offers this small chapter as an apology*
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  i did a control + f for kiss and i'll have u know i am not mad, just disappointed  
> when will i get my dread shark/mermaid kisses the people need to know
> 
> ALSO FANART ROUND OKAY (did i miss anything idek)  
> My Patreon stuff from the lovely DestinyApostacy: [mermaid aevalle, honest to goodness Dread Shark.](http://destinyapostasy.tumblr.com/post/150895720047/a-monthly-patreon-reward-for-dinoswrites-if)


	15. Most Holy

Val Royeaux is somewhat _less_ beautiful than Aevalle has heard it described.

_Keeper_ opens its hatch, and Aevalle climbs the stairs to the smell of dead fish and a great deal of shit, the calls of an overwhelming number of gulls, their wings stark white in a sky that is the wrong colour of grey over her head. The air tastes like coal smoke, and as she stands on the ship’s deck she struggles to smell the ocean itself, even as the last trickles of water slip off _Keeper’s_ hull.

“Don’t make that face, my dear,” Vivienne tells her, softly. “There are eyes everywhere.”

She almost asks how anyone could see her expression through the smoke in the air—a thick cloud that hangs over the city, muddling the afternoon sun and making her gag—but she knows that Vivienne is not one to give advice lightly. She takes a moment to school her expression, resisting the urge to rub at her nose to relieve its sudden itch as the dockhands stare up at them, utterly stunned at the ship that has risen out of the depths as it approached the harbour.

“Boy!” Blackwall calls, with enough authority in his voice to make both of them jump in place, drawing their attention from the ship’s slick hull and up to him.

Solas comes to stand at her side while Blackwall attempts to get the dock fees out of them—they are, understandably, quite shocked, having seen the ship rise from the depths as it made its way towards the harbour proper.

“Perhaps we should have surfaced further out,” Solas muses.

_Keeper said we’re only hidden under the water,_ she replies, trying hard not to grin at the boys, who just keep blinking up at Blackwall as they open and close their mouths like gasping fish. _Said it was safer to surface as close to the docks as possible._

“From Corypheus, perhaps,” he says, subtly inclining his head towards the sounds of commotion coming up the docks. “However…”

There are soldiers, racing down the stone stairs that lead to the city proper, their armour rattling as they run—lead by a man with a feather in his hat, though she’s not sure what bird it comes from. It’s very large, for certain, bouncing around in the air as he strides.

She knows _what_ the feather means, though standing on _Keeper’s_ deck is the furthest she’s ever stepped into Orlais. This man is a Chevalier—the villains of some of her father’s stories, the boots that crushed the backs of each unwilling hero, only to be outwitted in the end by the clever elves they wronged.

She is old enough now to know that those are just stories. She’s heard truer tales since—and she stands a little straighter as they approach, moves to place herself a little between Solas and the soldiers, her shoulder in front of his.

The Chevalier is wearing a mask that looks a little like a ram—though his hat obscures most of the details. Aevalle thinks it’s a little much, wearing both a mask _and_ such a broad hat. Is he that terrible a liar?

The Chevalier shouts something in Orlesian—which is not a language she speaks, but she’s run across enough Orlesian ships back with her clan to know he is telling them to stop what they’re doing and explain themselves.

Cassandra, thankfully, sees fit to join them on deck then, the high collar of her dark jacket mirroring the sharp lines of her cheekbones as she storms up to the rail.

“Stand down!” she calls, and Aevalle watches the men snap to attention at the sound of her voice. “Do you threaten every vessel that docks here without first looking? That is a Grey Warden you are speaking to with that tone!”

The Chevalier recovers much quicker than his men—though it’s possible he continues to gape openly under that mask, and Aevalle amuses herself for a moment by picturing his expression.

“Lady Pentaghast,” he says, dropping into a stiff bow.

Vivienne _tsks_ at the sight of it. Aevalle thinks back to her—extremely rushed—etiquette lessons from the night before, standing on a chair while some poor tailor sat on the floor and pinned up the hem of a sea green dress Josephine had found, muttering to himself all the while about _unreasonable deadlines_ and how the dress was _certainly not her colour_.

The bow is not low enough, she thinks, as the man rises again. Cassandra is, of course, Nevarran royalty, no matter how distantly related. Not to mention functioning leader of the Inquisition, and Right Hand of the Divine. She toys with her skirts to keep herself from asking Vivienne if that’s a bad sign.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, “but what do you expect, when you enter our harbour unannounced with some strange ship, flying no colours?”

“It is a _submersible_ vessel,” Cassandra snaps, swinging her leg over the rail and beginning to climb down the handrail carved into the side of the ship, “how would you _expect_ us to fly colours?”

He bristles. “I have not given you permission to dock!”

Cassandra drops the last few feet to the deck with a _thud._ Ignoring the Chevalier, she turns to the dockhands and says, “A gangplank would be useful, if you are finished staring.”

“Do relax, my dear,” Vivienne tells Aevalle, as the Chevalier accuses Cassandra of ignoring him. “They would be far more suspicious if she was polite for a change.”

Vivienne sounds almost _bemoaning_ , and Aevalle can’t help her grin. She does relax her grip on her skirts, however, as the dockhands scramble away.

They take a long time to return, however—Blackwall and Sera run off to hire a carriage, while Cassandra engages in an extended shouting match with the Chevalier. His men look on, glancing uneasily at the ship and the people standing on it, and they are quickly joined by a crowd. Mostly dockworkers, at first, though carriages on the street above are quickly stopped, so their drivers can lean out the window and stare at the strange ship in the harbour. Then people start coming down to the dock to get a closer look, and soon where there was only lazy morning emptiness and that disgusting coal fog, there are people pressed into every space, standing on every stair and leaning over creaking rails to get a closer look.

There are so many, she loses count of them. Loses count!

_How many people live here?_ she asks, bewildered.

“Attempts have been made to count,” Vivienne replies, “but it is… difficult to guess.”

_Where do they sleep? What do they eat?_ Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip. _How do you feed this many people?_

“For the very poor, one family will sleep in a room, and then another will make use of it when the first goes to work. As for food…” Solas says, his hands folded behind his back as he stands just a little farther away from her than necessary. “That is, perhaps, the greatest challenge of modern society. How to feed so many people, in such a small space.”

“It’s better than it has been,” Vivienne assures her, with a gentleness that Aevalle suspects is more common than Vivienne lets on. “Industry has created as many problems as it has opportunities—they will not be solved in a day.”

“How many days, then, would you call an acceptable amount of time to make an attempt?” Solas muses, in that tone he gets when he’s about to pick a fight with Vivienne over every problem in the world all over again.

They are pushing the gangplank up to the ship’s hull, and Aevalle pretends to stumble when _Keeper_ rocks a little bit at the contact.

Solas rushes to fill that space between them—steadying her with a hand at the small of her back. It’s the most contact than they’ve had since… oh, since the moment she thought he did not want her because a monster turned her voice into some horror out of one of her father’s old stories.

Since the kiss in that dream. When he appeared in a world where she had not failed the people she loved.

It’s hard, to let it be simple. To let it just be a dream. To try to go back—but even the brush of his hand on her back through layers of jewelled-tone cloth is _heavy_ , weighted by what he now knows. Just like the shiver it sends over her skin is tempered by the memory of Dorian’s voice. Of a hushed conversation over firelight and wine, an empty chair between them where Felix had sat a few nights before.

Gone, now. Run off to Tevinter to die alone.

“Alright yes he’s extremely odd, I’m not certain how old he is and he has terrible taste,” Dorian had said, pouring them each a second glass. “But other than the whole _secret apostate_ thing I think he’s utterly boring. Brilliant mind, especially for an untrained tide mage, but _boring_. I don’t understand for a minute why you’re so smitten.”

She’d decided not to tell him about the dream, though she could see him looking at her expression and a warm smile creeping up on his lips. A little sad, perhaps, but they had been one drinking companion short that night. Never mind that they’d gotten one more goodbye than they thought they would—one last adventure together, against all good reason.

But Dorian had only leaned forward, and placed his hand on her knee. “Aevalle,” he’d said, “you don’t _need_ my approval. If you want this, then by all means. You deserve some happiness, I think, after everything.”

Solas mutters an apology, retreating from her with alarm and jolting her from her daydream. She smiles, doing her best to look embarrassed, and gestures towards the boots on her feet, with their sturdy little heels.

He only smiles back, and offers her his arm.

She links hers in his—Vivienne has never looked so simultaneously _proud_ and _disappointed_ —and he walks with her to the gangplank, which is broad enough for them to walk side by side. Under the guise of steadying her, of course, and it makes her think of how he took her hand, climbing up out of the depths of Seahold after the fight with the eel.

He relaxes, now, and it is almost the same. Walking in step with one another, he leads her down the wooden plank. There are eyes on them—and there is so much breathing and conversation in the crowd that it _buzzes_ , like there are no longer individuals out there but just a single mass of bodies pressed together. Even when Cassandra strides forward with that _look_ on her face and the crowd splits for them, she feels nothing but eyes on her, on Solas, on Vivienne, on Varric and Bull a step behind them.

She wishes Dorian could come, but he and Cole had opted to wait on the ship, in case a quick getaway is needed. And it was decided that, perhaps, her story of _escaped Tevinter slave_ might be less believable, if there were a Tevinter altus following her every step.

They press through the crowd without incident—though she does hear a few mutters of some of her companion’s names, and one fervent person shouting for an autograph. But for the most part, people seem content to only stare and whisper. And she tries to tell herself that it’s not just her, that it’s Vivienne with her glittering gown, and Bull with… well. Being Bull.

Still, she wishes Josephine and Vivienne had let her wear the brown dress. This one is too bright by far, and she sticks out in the crowd like a moss flower among stones.

Solas seems to sense her unease, and squeezes her arm reassuringly. “They are admiring a rare and beautiful thing,” he tells her, walking a little closer now than is technically proper. As if he too, has forgotten for a moment—or has remembered, instead, what it felt like to have no space between them.

Her breath catches. She cannot tease him, with her hand occupied, and she is irrationally frightened that if she lets go that the easiness between them will vanish again, to wherever it went when he asked for time.

She thinks it instead—lets it show in the curve of her lip, in a playful narrow of her eyes. False accusement— _flatterer._

He ducks his head with a bashful smile, and she knows he understands.

At the end of it all, Solas helps her into the coach. His hand is gentle on hers as he guides her, with more grace and ease than she would have guessed a month ago. But she forgets, sometimes, that he has painted for courts—of course he would be at ease in this world, of cities and stomping horses and fine dresses.

She can feel the calluses on his hands, the roughness of sea salt and his painting that is embedded in his skin. Their hands linger a moment longer than necessary—and she hesitates, thinking of that late night etiquette lesson, of ways of greeting and affection.

His eyes dart down to their joined hands.

Once more, Dorian’s voice enters her thoughts unbidden. _You deserve some happiness_.

There is something… hollow to that thought.

She withdraws her hand, and seats herself in the carriage. Folding her hands demurely in her lap, and trying to stop the racing of her heart.

Solas sits across from her, his own expression careful and neutral. Vivienne climbs in after, perching next to Aevalle, and Varric slips in next to Solas.

The Chevalier from earlier has caught up with Cassandra, and they are continuing their argument while Bull climbs up beside the driver.

“—and you have failed the declare whether there are mages in your company, or provide the required paperwork for them—“

“I told you,” Cassandra drawls, already half into the cab, “I have none I intend to declare.”

She slams the door in the Chevalier’s face, and crams herself in the seat between Varric and the door. Solas makes a face as he attempts to shift over, and Aevalle thinks that it’s… an awful lot of broad shoulder for one seat.

Outside, Blackwall bangs twice on the side of the carriage, and then the whole thing lurches forward and they’re off. He and Sera will be waiting at some midpoint between here and the Grand Cathedral, in case the worst happens and they are forced to flee.

At her back, she thinks she can hear Bull telling the driver that he’s her bodyguard.

She… really doesn’t know why he keeps saying that.

“Are we even going to _get_ an audience with the Divine today?” Varric asks, squirming closer to Solas. “I mean, we didn’t exactly send a raven.”

“Considering we vastly outpaced the average raven, that would have been a waste of time,” Solas grumbles.

Cassandra, pinching the bridge of her nose, lets out a frustrated sigh. “I will simply demand we be let through.”

“My dear, even given your considerable sway with the Divine, I doubt you could manage that.”

Solas exhales. “You mean to say we’ve come all this way and your plan is to simply barge in?”

“I don’t think Cassandra ever has any other plan,” Varric quips.

“I do not hear you coming up with anything better!” Cassandra snaps.

That gets them both going then, Varric with sly remarks that hide just as much venom as Cassandra’s open disgust. Aevalle slouches in her seat with a long, slow exhale.

She ignores the significant look Vivienne gives her over it. No one can see in here, anyway, and she doesn’t care about wrinkles in her dress. She wants to be out of the damn thing and these unbearably warm boots as soon as possible.

But she catches a touch of amusement in Solas’s expression, at her blatant defiance. And she can’t keep a sour face, looking up at him as he attempts to hide his sudden smile behind a hand, disguise it with an unconvincing cough.

His eyes are still laughing, though. Makes it hard not to smile back.

Vivienne _sniffs_ with disdain.

 

There is a plan, should things go horribly wrong.

Aevalle reminds herself of that as Solas helps her out of the carriage, which has stopped just inside the gates to the Grand Cathedral. They are bright and ornate—she supposes they would glitter, if there wasn’t such a thick cloud of filth hanging in the air. She watches the gates close as she steps down—watches the crowd outside surge forward, as the Templars latch them shut.

“Odd,” Cassandra says, narrowing her eyes at the crowd and the Templars guarding the gates. “I have served as the Right Hand for nearly twenty years, and I have never known the Grand Cathedral to be closed to the faithful.”

The air is no cleaner here than it was in the docks—less gull shit overall, which is nice, but the wind has turned so it’s blowing the odour of the city and all its industry towards them. That industry being... rather foul smelling, overall.

She could probably pick out the specifics, if she tried—tanneries, perhaps even smelting and metalwork, pulp and paper. But when she inhales—and struggles not to let her expression show her disgust—she can only smell coal, and a kind of filth she has only ever associated with illness and death.

The air in the whole city tastes like bile in the back of her throat.

She links her arm with Solas’s when he offers, and Bull falls into step on her other side, his hands folded behind his back as he glances over the crowd with a wary eye, his expression deceptively relaxed.

“Nice of them to let us in,” Varric quips, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “But you can’t say this doesn’t speed things up a little, Seeker.”

“Yeah, and they just happen to close the gates the one day we show up, unannounced.” Bull shakes his head. “Must have sent a raven when we docked, and they’ve been clearing the place out since.”

Aevalle glances up at Vivienne, hoping for an explanation, but only sees slightly pursed lips marring an otherwise neutral expression.

“They are expecting a scene,” Solas says, his tone and expression light as if he were commenting on the weather. “Or perhaps a fight.”

“Then let’s not give them any reason for either,” Varric suggests with similar levity, “shall we?”

“Cassandra Pentaghast!”

Aevalle jumps a little at the sudden shout that comes from the Cathedral proper—a man’s voice, sharp and direct. She turns and there he is, storming towards them with a templar on either side, wearing a sharp-lined jacket in Chantry colours, though Aevalle has never learned enough about the Chantry to know what that means.

Cassandra actually curses under her breath at the sight of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, glowering up at Cassandra as he draws closer. “You arrive in an unmarked, unaffiliated ship, refusing to declare any mages though I can see one in your presence—”

Vivienne raises a brow at him with all the air of someone who is above this commotion. Sadly, it does not deter him in the slightest.

“—and you demand entry to the Grand Cathedral when it is closed! Bringing—” He gestures to Aevalle, or more specifically to her face, and she straightens as the templars on either side of him snap their gaze to her.  He gestures to Bull as well, who has the good grace to only look slightly amused at the attention. “Bringing the _unfaithful_ in when devout Andrastians have been barred from entry.”

_I have plenty of faith_ , _just not yours_ , she wants to tell him, but doubts anyone would appreciate her attitude enough to interpret for her at this particular moment.

“I don’t have time for this,” Cassandra snaps. “Grand Chancellor, we have urgent business with the Divine. Yell at me all you like, but kindly do it while we are moving towards her rather than standing in a courtyard wasting time.”

“The Divine is not seeing visitors!”

Cassandra shoves past him with a scoff. “Ridiculous,” she tells him. “Even if that _were_ true, we have been summoned by the Divine herself.”

Aevalle and Solas fall into step behind her, even as the Chancellor sputters and whirls to keep pace. She finds she’s glad for Solas’s arm, steadying her in the unfamiliar boots, because Cassandra walks with purpose—with long strides that quickly take them up the stairs and into the Cathedral proper.

They breeze through the Cathedral itself so quickly, Aevalle barely gets a look at it. She glances up to see high, vaulted ceilings with figures painted on them, the glitter of gold everywhere she looks, white marble and broad flashes of brilliant red. There are female figures everywhere—even she knows enough about the Chant to assume they’re Andraste—but there are so many others who do not have the depiction of serenity or divinity around them, and many more that are male besides. They stare down, point fingers, bow their heads in remorse… she feels as if there’s a story being told that she doesn’t know, and their accusing stares make the hair on the back of her neck rise.

It must have taken years to build this place, she thinks, as she struggles to keep up with Cassandra. It’s beautiful, but it feels so… empty. Perhaps the place would be less eerie if the crowds outside were allowed in.

Even though she does not falter as she charges through the Cathedral, Cassandra herself looks a little unsettled at the place.

“You know,” Varric pipes up as Cassandra and the Chancellor continue to argue, “I was just wondering. Shouldn’t there be sisters performing rites or something? Lighting candles? Reciting the Chant?”

“Maybe they’re all out helping the poor,” Bull suggests, sounding like he doesn’t believe it for a second.

“Sure,” Varric says, weakly, and then they lapse into silence again.

Beside her, Solas is tense. She glances up at him, and his gaze is sharp as he glances over at the templars hanging around the edges of the room. They are glaring down Vivienne with open suspicion, though she pays them no mind. Aevalle counts ten at a glance, just standing around in an empty room, scowling at the party trailing along behind Cassandra as she barrels through.

Every single one of them has a hand on their sword.

She curls her arm a little tighter around Solas’s, pulling him a little closer as they walk. She straightens her shoulders and glares right back at the templars.

“It will be alright,” Solas murmurs to her without looking down.

She exhales. They have a plan if it all goes bottom up, she reminds herself again.

She still glares at the templars, though. Just for good measure.

Behind her, Varric says in a low voice so the words won’t carry far, “Hey, Tiny.”

“Yeah?”

“I just pictured Drifter with all her fins out and puffed up—”

Bull snorts a little too loudly, trying and failing to control a burst of laughter. It echoes back at them, until the Templars give them all such odd looks that even Aevalle can’t keep scowling, no matter how hard she tries.

They pass from the great hall of the Cathedral without incident and into a whole different part of the building that Aevalle hadn’t seen from the outside—they climb a grand, curving staircase while Cassandra and the Chancellor continue to antagonize one another. It is only when they reach the top that the Chancellor grabs Cassandra’s arm, pulls her close, and whispers something in her ear.

Cassandra actually stills, for a moment—half a heartbeat, if that. Aevalle catches a glimpse of her expression as they come to a stop behind her, and she looks _terrified_.

“Why didn’t you just _say_ that, Roderick?” she nearly shouts, shoving the doors before her open and bursting through at a full-tilt run.

The others barrel through after her—even Vivienne, in her fine heels, runs through without trouble. Aevalle tries to follow, but trips over her dress and the awful boots, and only her tight grip on Solas’s arm keeps her from tumbling back down the way they came.

He stays with her to steady her, then helps her up the last few stairs at a teeth-grinding pace.

The chamber at the top of the stairs is wide, bright and airy. There are plants on the windowsills, and even though they are closed, Aevalle could swear the room feels open, almost breezy. Warm, as if the perpetual fog and grime of the city outside does not quite reach here. And there’s something else on the air, almost… electric. The kind that’s just barely there, a little taste on the tongue before a small summer storm.

Solas stills when they enter the chamber, and his eyes narrow in curiosity.

An old woman’s voice drifts out from further in the room. “I told you before, Roderick, there is no need to incite mass panic. I am simply… unwell.”

“Unwell?” he cries. “I hardly call surviving an assassination attempt to be _simply unwell_.”

Aevalle tugs at him, and he follows, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Around a curve in the wall, there is an old woman sitting at a desk. She looks very formal—dressed all in a robe that appears very official, with a very tall hat, though Aevalle doesn’t have a clue what any of it means or what it’s called. She is very calmly writing on some paper while Cassandra stands and gawks at her from the other side of the desk. The Chancellor—Roderick—stands with his arms crossed and glowers at them both.

“It’s not the first,” the woman Aevalle presumes to be the Divine says, finally looking up from her desk, “and it certainly won’t be the last.”

She meets Aevalle’s gaze from across the room. And— _there it is_ , that electric taste again. And with it, something like the roll of the ocean beneath her feet, as if the whole Cathedral suddenly became a little aravel on a rocking sea, bright red sails snapping in the wind.

Aevalle inhales, the Divine looks away, and the sensation is gone.

Before she can even wonder what that feeling was, the Divine is standing.

“Is this her?” she asks, turning and standing before the window.

Cassandra hesitates. “Most Holy,” she says, “The facts are… not as we thought.”

“ _Her_?” Roderick whirls, wearing an expression of open shock that quickly becomes rage and disgust. “You mean to say—Templars! Arrest her at once!”

“Stand down!” Cassandra snaps, even as Bull, Solas and Varric all practically jump over one another to physically bar the templars standing in the doorway from Aevalle. Solas and Aevalle have a brief scuffle—Aevalle tries to stand between Solas and the templars, and very nearly manages to kick off one boot in the process, but Solas wins that battle by virtue of flat footwear and the _fiercest_ of warning looks directed at Aevalle from Vivienne, who stands perfectly still across the room.

At Cassandra’s command, the templars pause mid-step. They look between the Divine, Roderick, and Cassandra, uncertain whose orders they should follow—with perhaps more than one uneasy glance to the very large Qunari blocking their way, his arms crossed over his chest as he glares down at them.

“The Divine herself requested Miss Lavellan’s presence!”

“Certainly,” Roderick agrees, “so that she is brought to justice! For the sinking of the _Justinia_ , and the lives lost besides!"

“And if you would _listen_ you would see why that is no longer necessary!”

“You cannot shirk due process simply because you _feel_ like it, Lady Pentaghast!”

The Divine raises her hand, and both Cassandra and the Chancellor fall silent.

“I will speak with her alone,” the Divine says, without turning around.

“Absolutely not,” Roderick insists, but in a gentler tone than he’d used with Cassandra. “You have only just two days ago survived an attack! And you wish to be alone with some suspect who is not even of the faithful—”

“Most Holy,” Cassandra says, and she sounds _almost_ pleading. “If I might explain…”

Roderick rolls his eyes. “Who don’t you just let _her_ explain, if she’s charmed you so?”

“She cannot speak!”

“Alone,” the Divine says again. Sharper, this time.

Roderick stiffens, and looks as if he has more to say; but in the face of the Divine’s silence and straight, straight back, he clearly changes his mind. With a resigned sigh, he shakes his head and says, “As Her Holiness wishes.”

Roderick turns on his heel and leaves, each step on the marble floor sharp and precise in the silence that blankets the room. No one else moves—the templars retreat away from the room, though no further than  the door itself, where they stare back into the room with fiercely stoic expressions.

They’re looking at her, though, not Vivienne or Solas. She thinks that’s probably a very serious mistake for a templar to make; but would rather they focus on her than either of them, nonetheless.

“She requires an interpreter,” Cassandra says, breaking the silence. “Mister Solas understands her best of all of us.”

“The painter?”

Aevalle wonders if she’s imagining it—there’s a hint of humour in the Divine’s voice, despite how unchanged her body language appears. Though her back is turned, Aevalle can picture a smile creeping up on her lips, maybe in spite of herself.

Cassandra is wringing her hands. It’s such a strange sight—Cassandra, looking uncertain.

“Yes,” she says. “If you recall from Mister Rutherford’s initial report, Mister Solas is the one who found her. He has volunteered his services in this matter.”

The Divine glances over her shoulder to stare at Solas. Her brows furrow slightly, though Aevalle can’t quite read what that means.

For his part, Solas only smiles and politely inclines his head.

Justinia turns back to the window. “Of course,” she says, and though her tone is somewhat gentle, there is a firmness to her words that means the matter is final.

Still, Cassandra hesitates. Her frown deepens as she looks the Divine up and down—her expression grows incredulous for a moment, before she controls it. Then she nods, though the Divine is no longer looking at her, and turns on her heel.

With her movement, the others begin to disperse. Uncertain themselves, they send curious looks at the woman standing at the head of the room even as they turn to go. Vivienne alone looks unfazed by the whole conversation, though she sends one wary glance at Aevalle as she passes, a clear warning.

Cassandra pauses long enough to put her hand on Aevalle’s shoulder. She opens her mouth, as if to whisper something—but she only sends a glance backwards, toward the Divine, and closes it again.

Instead of speaking, she holds Aevalle’s gaze for a long moment—as long as she dares, it seems. Then Cassandra squeezes her shoulder gently, and walks away.

The doors close behind Cassandra, leaving Aevalle and Solas alone in the room with the Divine.

There is nothing between them but utter silence for several long moments.

Then Aevalle remembers to breathe, and the stillness of the room is broken. The Divine turns, drops her gaze to meet Aevalle’s, and Aevalle feels the whole room sway under her feet again. The old woman’s hard expression softens into a sad, sad smile.

Solas clears his throat, and the Divine blinks very suddenly—as if she had forgotten he was even there.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Mister Solas,” she says. “Now I may at last put a face and a voice to all our correspondence.”

“Admirably done,” Solas replies. “Precisely as the Divine herself would have said it. But I believe we have met before, have we not?”

The old woman’s smile deepens into something fonder, and Aevalle thinks she sees something... _flash_ in her eyes. Like a flicker of some inner light. “Not as we are,” she says, and her voice wavers. It almost sounds like... like Aevalle is hearing it from underwater. “It seems you cannot help but be involved in this too, my friend.”

_What do you mean?_ she asks, looking between the Divine and Solas.

“I mean that the assassination attempt on the Divine was successful,” Solas explains, as if he is speaking about the weather.

Aevalle narrows her eyes at the Divine—standing across the room, still, smiling very gently in response to Aevalle’s scrutiny.

“To a point,” the old woman clarifies, and because Aevalle is looking for it, she can see her eyes flashing bright, bright white.

_Oh._ Aevalle almost says it out loud—opens her mouth, then shuts it again so fast her teeth _clack_. She tries to gesture, but she can’t quite figure out what to sign, and it comes out as her fingers splaying wide, vaguely, entirely without meaning.

It takes her a moment, but eventually she signs, _You’re a spirit?_

The old woman inclines her head.

_But…_ She glances between Solas and the Divine—rather, the spirit posing as the Divine—but finds no answers in Solas’s inscrutable expression or the Divine’s calm composure. _Why?_

“The answer to that question usually lies in the nature of the spirit in question,” Solas replies. She thinks the line of his shoulders still looks awfully straight—and she thinks she sees that sorrow that creeps into his eyes, familiar now but still entirely beyond her understanding.

When he does not elaborate, Aevalle looks to the spirit again. _So,_ she asks, _what is your… nature, then?_

The old woman smiles, as if Aevalle had asked a far more complicated question. As if she were a child who had asked, _Where do we go when we die?_ Her eyes are sad, like the answer isn’t one she wants to give.

“Can’t you feel it?” the Divine asks, sweeping forward. In the space of a breath she crosses the room, and reaches up to cup Aevalle’s face in her hands.

Her hands are… surprisingly warm. Aevalle sucks in a surprised breath—she’d been expecting a corpse. But her hands feel like sunlight reflecting off the sea, her touch soft and gentle like the kiss of sea spray on her skin, and—

—and for a moment, she’s standing on an aravel. Leaning forward to peer into the water, one hand on the rope that supports her, balanced on the tip of her toes on the boat’s edge. Her spear is in her other hand, but she’s holding it loosely—those are only halla in the water, sleek bodies shining as they race alongside the boat, just under the surface. She doesn’t need to watch where they’re going, because behind her is Emren, hand on the till, and he would never let her fall—

But Emren died, she remembers. His sleek black and gold scales turned dull with disease, far away from an ocean or a sun to shine down on it.

There are tears running down her cheeks, when she comes back to the room. The Divine is gently wiping them away with her thumbs.

“There it is,” she says, softly. “It’s taken a beating, hasn’t it? But there it is.”

Her exhale shakes. But then she feels Solas’s hand on her shoulder, and her next breath is steadier.

She takes a moment to compose herself while Solas speaks with the spirit.

“… and sequestering yourself from the faithful will only corrupt you,” he explains.

The Divine smiles steadily through it all. “Of course,” she says. “Roderick is so worried, it seemed natural to appease him.”

Solas lets out a sigh that sounds more like a displeased huff. “This is a very dangerous game you’re playing. If you act too far outside the Divine’s character, the templars might notice something is amiss. And if they do not, then your own nature might become twisted by the adoration of those around you, no matter their intentions.”

“I chose this,” she tells him. “You have enough to worry about, I believe.”

He sends a long glance towards Aevalle—and, as if just noticing his hand on her shoulder, pulls it away.

“I do not know what you mean,” he says, with a tone that is strangely icy for him, as he reaches up and adjusts the high collar of his shirt. “Now, if you would be so kind as to tell us _why_ the Divine summoned Miss Lavellan. Before her untimely demise.”

The spirit meets his gaze evenly—and the silence goes on so long, Aevalle wonders if she’s ever going to answer. But eventually she closes her eyes, as if internally deciding  something, and turns back to the window.

“She was going to question you on the sinking of the _Justinia_ , and your part in it. She would have been won over by your tale of woe, certainly—though the lives that were lost are not inconsequential. I believe she would have ordered your imprisonment, and eventual execution, though I cannot know for certain.”

“And you intend to follow suit?” Solas asks, breezily.

Aevalle can feel a familiar pull under her skin, as if she were standing in the waves. She glances down at his hand, to find his fingers clenched and frost forming on his knuckles.

The Divine glances over her shoulder at them.

“I think,” she says, turning to face them once more, “that only yesterday there was an attempt made on the Divine’s life. That her attackers were clearly sent by one named Corypheus, as they spoke his name during the assault. That they were all Grey Wardens, who did not respond to the Divine’s pleas to their better nature and their calling, as if they were men and women possessed by a power greater than their own.”

Aevalle feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. It comes back in a heartbeat—the glimpse of a man in Warden armour, that shining gryphon spied through an open door in the space it takes for the whip to be dragged down her back and then raised again—

She blinks away the memory. Foggy, like a fever dream, save for pain and that small detail. Had put it from her mind, after Blackwall was so kind to her…

“It is settled, then,” the spirit says, sitting at the desk as Aevalle is shaken from her thoughts. “As such, the crimes of one Aevalle Lavellan, while serious, will require a more creative punishment than imprisonment and execution. Should she wish for the forgiveness of Andraste’s followers, then she will have to determine the nature of the man known as Corypheus, to determine his ties to the Grey Wardens and their guilt in the matter of the attempt on the Divine’s life, investigate their disappearance, and put a stop to the activities of this madman.”

She pulls a sheet of paper out of a drawer—and, with smooth strokes, signs it. She stands again and offers it to Aevalle, only for Solas to snatch it up.

She’s relieved. The writing looks quite fine, and she doesn’t think she’d be able to read it very quickly.

Solas, however, only seems to grow enraged as he reads it.

“ _Conscription_?” He spits the word like cold venom. “This is your answer? You’re so comfortable in your new skin you already seek to bind people to causes not their own—”

“Considering that she may not go where she pleases without being immediately set upon by enemy forces, you are overestimating the current state of her freedom. She is bound to the Inquisition regardless—this only makes it official, and appeases those who would call for her to hang.”

“I have heard similar enough arguments before,” Solas snaps, “and I am not so foolish to believe them again. As you should know, _Faith_.”

The way he says it sends a chill up Aevalle’s spine. Or maybe that’s just the temperature in the room slowly dropping, she thinks, noticing ice beginning to spread from his fingers to the paper.

There are templars just outside the door, she thinks with a surge of panic, just waiting for something to go awry.

She touches his arm, to draw his gaze from the Divine. His sleeve crinkles under her touch, and the cold bites at her fingertips.

When she has his attention, she lets go and signs, _She’s not wrong, Solas. I don’t exactly have a choice._

He looks as if he is about to say something—but then he closes his mouth and exhales. His jaw clenches, and by the time he looks back up at the Divine, the temperature in the room has warmed some.

“Once the matter of the Grey Wardens is resolved, she is free to go.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Her debt is repaid, and she is no longer _beholden_ to the whims of the _Most Holy_.”

The way he says the title, it sounds like the lowest insult.

The Divine’s smile never falters.

“Of course,” she says, turning her gaze to Aevalle. “When the particulars of Miss Lavellan’s contract are resolved, she is free to do whatever she pleases. Ah, apologies—that’s _Captain Lavellan_ , now, isn’t it?”

Solas still grips the paper in his hand. In spite of her own reassurances, it takes… considerable effort to reach over to take it. It brings back memories of a metal collar, pouring wine, trying to get herself killed in the practice ring…

_This is not the same thing_ , she thinks to herself, but it does not stop the turning of her stomach. Tries to think of peach trees and card games, instead, but all that comes to mind is Deshanna, lying on that cold table. Clinging to her, searching for her face with eyes that could not see— _Find a clan. Protect them._

Dorian is going to be so furious with her.

Aevalle takes a deep breath, and takes the paper from Solas’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **unseeliequeens 01:01 21 Dec**  
>  the place where the sea was held back......... hmmm.............. hmMMMMMMMMMMM.............  
>  **16:55 21 Dec**  
>  i honestly have no idea what i was thinking
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  sit on his lap (i almost typed face but i couldn't figure out how to strikethrough on gdocs... what a wasted opportunity to show the world what a perv i am)
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  SHIT!!!!!!!! IS THIS THE FADE SPIRIT!!!! IS THIS WISDOM!!! WHO DIS!!!!  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  :D  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  I JUST SKIMMED THE CHAP AND I DIDNT GET A N ANSWER I HATE UR DUMB BEAUTIFUL :D FACE BECAUSE IT MEANS I WONT GET AN ANSWER GOD DAMN TI  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  :D :D :D  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  i h8 u sometimes my partner in crime, i truly do
> 
> **unseeliequeens**  
>  OH SHIT see this is why i hate skimming because..... i miss things.... god....... shame on me t b h  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  Haha but is it really Faith?  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  oh come ON  
> :D face in 3... 2... 1...  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  :D


	16. Devotion

On the eastward edge of the Exalted Archipelago, there is an unremarkable island featuring little more than a small cove that shelters a sleepy human village. The island is too small, too out of the way to be of any strategic use to the armies waging their great sea battles among the other islands—not to mention that, due to a collection of domestic pigs that were introduced by sailors and have subsequently destroyed most of the island’s wildlife, boasts no ability to feed a standing army of any kind. The people who live there rely on trade—have for as long as their village has stood there—and they don’t tend to look twice at the colours any visiting ship is flying.

War time has been good to them—so ignored by both Gaspard’s and Celene’s armies, they are usually the only stopping point in the Archipelago for any ship hoping to avoid the conflict. And, as it turns out, sailors who have spent months at sea will pay a premium for anything that isn’t fish.

“Come from Seahold, then?” the pork seller asks, inspecting a customer’s coin. A mix of Ferelden and Orlesian, mostly, with some Marcher currency thrown in.

“Aye,” the dwarf confirms, “the only place safe enough to be making any business south of the Marches, these days. Though I’m back to Kirkwall next—my wife’s due with our newest in a month, and she’ll have my hide if I’m not there for this one. Missed the last three, and I’m afraid I’ll be hearing about it when they’ve each had three of their own.”

“My daughter’s stationed there,” she says, turning to pull a pig down from where it hangs on a hook at the back of her stall, “and she hardly sends me any letters at all! As if this Inquisition life is all too exciting to be letting her mothers know she’s alive every once in a while. My wife is beside herself with worry every night, ever since we heard that big warship sunk. They ever find who did it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he tells her, accepting the heavy load over his broad shoulder with ease. “Didn’t stay too long, but all anyone had to say was about this Dalish girl that got washed up from the sea, all mysterious. Like something out of one of them Tethras novels, the way it’s told. Couple of the men saw her, said she was a pretty little thing. Now what was her name…? I think it started with an ‘L’. Lacey? No, that’s not… Lavish? Lord?”

“Lavellan?”

The pork seller and the merchant turn to the speaker—a young Dalish man with dark hair, a bag and a spear slung over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, blinking rapidly. “I know it’s rude to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear—the girl’s name, was it Lavellan?”

The merchant nods. “Sounds about right, I think. As far as I can tell, anyway.” Turning to the pig seller once more, he nods and says, “Many thanks for the business, love, and if your girl still hasn’t written next time I’m in, I’ll take you to see her myself.”

He barely has time to take his leave before the young Dalish man is throwing his bag on the stall’s counter.

“Loranil!” the pig seller chides. “Have some care, my boy, you’ll scratch my counter!”

“ _Ir abelas_ —ah, sorry, Miss, but it’s urgent. I’ll need double—no, triple—my usual.”

She pulls three bags of dried and salted pork from out under her counter. “For my best customer? Of course. But, whatever for? You not planning on coming back anytime soon?”

He is busy digging around in the bag—he pulls out a woven bracelet, the usual, but also pulls out a roll of sealskin for legwraps, a length of fishing line, and several hooks carvedfashioned from fish bones, before he yanks out a leather cord with six shark teeth dangling from it. He leaves the bracelet and the teeth on the counter, frantically shoving everything else into his bag.

“Not for a while, I’m afraid,” he tells her, taking the offered pork in a hurry. After a moment’s consideration, he opens one of the bags, takes out a piece, and makes to shove it in his mouth. He pauses, then, and says, “I’ll tell your daughter to write more, if I see her!”

“What?”

But Loranil is already gone—pork jerky in his mouth, bag over his shoulder, running as fast as he can through the sleepy little village and down to the docks.

 

“I don’t understand,” Leliana says for the third time.

Josephine looks up from the contract Aevalle signed, having just read it for the fifteenth time. “It’s all very clear,” she says, trying her best not to scowl. “Once the truth behind the attempt in the Divine’s life is fully investigated—”

“Not _that_ , Josie.” She is leaning on a window frame, staring out into the ocean, and she doesn’t even glance over her shoulder at her friend. “The particulars are… what they are. It’s just that…”

Josephine lowers the contract and waits, patiently, for Leliana to gather her thoughts.

But she doesn’t—she just stands and stares, brow creasing, clearly in deep thought. Framed by the window and the fading light, the stiffness of her posture is cast in stark shadows and rigid lines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so rattled,” Josephine says, finally standing and approaching her friend. Leliana doesn’t move, not even when Josie reaches over and touches her arm. “Truly, this isn’t the result we were hoping for, but this is far better than having to flee Val Royeaux and hope for the best. Isn’t it?”

Leliana’s lips twist downwards.

But on closer examination, Josephine doesn’t find her friend looks particularly _distraught_. Cassandra is an utter wreck—as much so as she ever lets herself appear—and had barely explained the situation before thrusting the contract at Josephine and excusing herself. Probably heading to destroy some training dummies, if Josephine had to guess.

No, Leliana looks as if there is some great puzzle she is trying to solve. Josephine’s seen that look before, and it’s never a good thing.

“This is not like her,” Leliana says, so softly Josephine almost doesn’t hear it.

“Who?”

Leliana only sends Josephine a meaningful look, then pulls away from the window.

“I was able to look into some of those coded Venatori messages,” she begins, thoroughly changing the direction of the conversation, and picks up the papers she’d brought with her into Josephine’s office, when the _Keeper_ returned from Val Royeaux. “Master Pavus was able to provide some insight on how the Venatori choose their ciphers.”

Josephine lets the topic drop, and takes the offered paper. She slips her glasses back down onto her nose and begins to read—and then has to sit down in her chair, almost missing it entirely in her haste.

“No,” she says. “No, this is—they can’t mean—the Empress, as well?”

“Keep reading,” Leliana says, utterly unhelpful.

“ _And our source closest to the Sun of Orlais believes the time to strike is when the two leaders will play at an attempt at parley. We eagerly await word of such a performance and will inform our Lord of when our partner there makes their move._ ” Josephine drops the letter to her desk, and lifts her reading glasses from her nose to look up at her friend.

“There have always been spies in the Empress’s court,” Leliana says, “you know that as well as I do, Josephine.”

“None of them backed by a madman with the gall to send assassins to kill the Divine, and apparently very nearly succeeded in spite of the best Templars in Thedas! Who supposedly has the missing Grey Wardens under his control!”

Leliana tries to take the paper again, but Josephine snatches it up again. She skims it furiously, lips moving as she reads, but she can feel her scowl only deepening the more she reads.

“If only we knew his aims,” she grumbles, when she has finished the letter. “Does he aim to place some puppet on the Orlesian throne? Or only to prevent peace between Celene and Gaspard and to keep Orlais in a state of civil war?”

There are no answers in this room, Josephine knows. Leliana only watches her, expectantly, waiting patiently for her to come to whatever conclusion she herself has.

With a sigh, she drops the paper to her desk again. “We must have Vivienne contact the Empress, and warn her—surely she will listen.”

“Warn her of what, Josie? Some monster from ancient tales? She is an Empress, in the middle of a civil war, no less.”

“Assassination attempts are nothing out of the ordinary,” she concedes, “so not a warning but—perhaps a small Inquisition contingent would attend? Though I would have to secure… a fair number of invitations, if we are to ensure the entire palace is covered.”

“I believe Lady Vivienne is already expected to attend,” Leliana says, “and I suppose the Divine will send Cassandra or I in her stead.”

“Both would be best,” Josephine says, taking up her quill. “If that’s all, Leliana, I’m afraid I have a terrible amount of work to do, and only a few short months to do it.”

Leliana gives the easy smile of a practiced bard, and makes her way out the door.

 

“It’s not so terrible,” Blackwall says, his hands wrapped around his tankard of ale.

It’s late and, aside from a few tables with sleepy-looking occupants, most of the pub’s patrons have left for the evening. This close to the keep, the pub mostly services sailors visiting Seahold and Inquisition soldiers, the locals preferring the taverns in the nearby town to the rowdiness of military patronage.

The minute Keeper was safely docked in Seahold, Sera had grabbed Aevalle by the arm and dragged her to the closest place to get a drink.

“I was conscripted,” Blackwall clarifies, and Aevalle realises she’s just been staring off into space. “Into… being a Warden. Wardenhood. It’s worked out, I suppose. Though, yours has an end date, and that’s… kind of nice, isn’t it?”

“Bollocks,” Sera says, somehow managing to pronounce both _l_ ’s separately. “If that daft old lady’d just asked you, you’d’a done it without all this…” she gestures vaguely as she searches for the correct word, “ _bullshit._ ”

“That’s the Divine you’re talking about,” Blackwall says with a stern frown. Made all the more… _stern_ because of that big beard of his. He has had considerably less to drink than Aevalle and Sera, and is a wise man for it.

Aevalle tries to tell him—that he frowns so good because of his beard and his big bushy eyebrows, not the drinking thing—but she mostly just gestures about his beard once or twice, making Sera giggle and Blackwall’s scowl get _scowlier_.

“Don’t care who she is,” Sera says, as Aevalle gives up. “She’s a daft old lady if she thinks she can boss anyone around like that.”

Aevalle tries to drink from her tankard, and finds it empty. She blows her hair out of her face and leans on the bar, distantly aware of Sera snatching the tankard out of her hands and calling over the barkeep. She’s been doing that all night, and Aevalle’s lost count of how many she’s _had_ , precisely.

She tries to remember, but it’s all a bit…

“Hey,” Sera says, gently pulling her up from the bar by her shoulder. “No passin’ out on the bar, alright? Your hair’s gonna get all sticky if you put your head on that, and then Solarse is gonna lean in for a smooch and you’ll be stuck together forever. Which is a thing I don’t want to see, _so._ ”

 _Solas doesn’t kiss me anymore_ , she signs. _Never did. We only dreamed about it._

“Sera, I think it’s time to get her to bed.”

“I don’t think they clean this thing, like, ever.”

“ _Sera_.”

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, Captain Mermaid, time for your beauty rest. First official day of captaining in the morning!”

 _I hate it already_ , she wants to sign. But she finds herself slung between Sera and Blackwall, an arm on each of their shoulders, and the most she can do is make petulant faces at them.

Sera makes them right back, and she finds it impossible not to giggle in reply.

They settle her down in the mess of Sera’s room—Sera cocoons her in soft blankets and softer pillows, singing a little off-key song as she does. Blackwall leans in the doorway and speaks for a while, easy banter back and forth with Sera that Aevalle is having a hard time listening to. She’s sure it’s very interesting, but the more Sera buries her, the safer she feels. Like she can just close her eyes, and she’s in an aravel again. Letting the waves rock her back and forth.

She only closes her eyes for a moment, really. When she opens them again, she looks up to an early morning sky, clouded by a thick grey fog, the dampness of it heavy on her brow. She shivers in spite of the furs she’s bundled in, that little movement causing her aravel to tremble in the water.

Right. She forgot to rig the sail up again.

It’s a difficult thing, to dig herself out of the furs and heavy woven blankets she’s wrapped up in. She shrugs into her clothing as fast as she can—and bites back a curse. She’s certain her aravel is near Mellen’s, and her children are so easily woken.

She shrugs on a sweater—factory made, borrowed at the last _Arlathvhen_ and never given back, it’s got its fair share of holes and it smells a little like fish but when she hugs it around herself it’s warm enough—then quickly wraps her feet. She wiggles her toes a little to warm them, then stands up.

But when she looks out over the little cove, she finds it empty. Not one halla, not a single aravel other than her own, slowly bobbing in the waves.

Did they… leave without her?

She frowns. No, Emren would never miss the chance to tease her about sleeping in, not after how badly she tormented him the last time. Or Veris to lecture her on the example she sets for the other hunters.

Her nose wrinkles. There’s… probably no avoiding that, at this point.

She turns around one more time, squinting into the thick fog for any sign of a red sail—and then she sees someone standing on the shore.

 _Deshanna_ , she thinks, instantly relieved.

But when she jumps out of her boat and wades out of the water, it’s not sand that touches her toes, but cold, hard stone.

And when she reaches Deshanna, her Keeper is sprawled out on a table, stuck half-transformed, bleeding everywhere, her eyes dull and—

“Protect them,” she hisses, her nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. “ _You promised_.”

Aevalle jerks awake to the sound of Sera’s snoring. Sweating, having thrown off every blanket Sera wrapped her in before she fell asleep.

It’s still too hot—she feels like she’s going to throw up.

She scrambles out of the room—not with much grace. When she trips on the last stair and nearly falls right on her ass, she realises that she’s still _quite_ drunk, and makes herself slow down a little. Tries to focus more, one foot in front of the other.

She makes it outside without any further problems. She finds a stone wall to lean against, to press her forehead into—it is cool, and steady, and if she just focuses on that, instead of how her whole body is being pulled, one way and then the other, she can maybe just be still for a moment. It will pass, it will pass…

She doesn’t throw up. She does stand there for a very long time, though, focusing on breathing and trying to ignore the sound of waves and the part of her that needs to answer it.

After she thinks she’s been standing there forever—or possibly ten minutes, give or take—there comes a soft voice from behind her. “That wasn’t her.”

She knows that. Nice to hear it, though.

She exhales, and turns around to put her back to the wall. Cole is standing there before her, not quite looking at her—his gaze turned up to the keep at her back.

Cole begins to speak again, a greater distance to his voice than normal, and Aevalle gets the sense that he’s talking about someone else. “It _is_. But… it spits from his mouth accusing. Implying—it _was._ But it _is.”_

She rakes a hand through her hair, her own thoughts too scattered to make any sense of what he’s trying to tell her.

“It didn’t have Faith,” he says. “A spirit can’t have; it _is_. And now it’s shaken hers.”

She tries to slide down the wall at her back, but Cole catches her. Cold hands on her skin—and she realises the air is cold, too, and she shivers at the touch of both.

“This isn’t a good place to sleep,” he says, almost chiding, pulled back from whatever distant place his thoughts had gone to.

She almost laughs—ducks her head into his shoulder, as he helps her up. He smells like seaweed and feels like being submerged entirely in water, but he does not sway—he is not pulled, like she is, and so he steadies her, and she allows herself to be led, step by shaking step, back to the keep.

 

Solas does not find Aevalle on the battlements the next morning.

He finds Cassandra instead, standing and staring off into the distance in the direction of Val Royeaux. Still dressed in the same clothing she was wearing the day before, and with dark circles under her eyes.

“How is she?” Cassandra asks, her voice thick, when Solas comes to stand beside her.

“I am not certain,” he answers, folding his hands behind his back. “If my suspicions are correct, however, she is probably sleeping off a terrible hangover.”

At Cassandra’s curious glance, he only shrugs. “Last I saw her, Sera and Blackwall were leading her towards the tavern.”

She sighs, and Solas finds the weight of it echoed in his own thoughts.

“I did not mean to have her indentured once again, Solas,” she says. Softer than Solas thinks he has ever heard her say anything before.

And he has… carried his anger with him, all the way from the Divine’s chambers and back to Seahold. It has kept him up all night, pacing in his room, then through the halls, and then down the shore to be alone with it, for a time.

It relents, just a little, in the face of the blame Cassandra is putting on herself.

“I know,” he says, gently. “And I suspect Ae—Miss Lavellan knows, as well.”

There is a hint of wryness about the look that Cassandra gives him—the impropriety of his little slip up in manners amuses her far more than it offends, it appears. But then, Cassandra has never been one for titles.

They walk together for a short while, then—mostly in silence, though when Solas reaches the passage to the rotunda where he works, Cassandra stops him from bidding her farewell with a gentle touch.

“It is just so unlike her,” she says, folding her hands before her. “So unlike the Justinia I know—to not _forgive_. To place her right back into another form of slavery. Did you notice anything—strange, about her?”

Solas is not certain how to respond. Aevalle had been adamant on telling the others.

 _I would want to know_ , she had signed. But she had relented in the end, when he explained his concern for the well-being of the spirit.

And besides—who would believe them?

“I did not know her before,” he settles on. “But it did not seem as if she was confused, or lacked lucidity. I doubt she suffered any trauma during the assassination attempt that has lingered, if that is what concerns you.”

Cassandra’s shoulders slump. “I thought it might… explain this,” she confesses. Then she straightens herself, shakes her head to clear it, and looks Solas in the eye once more. Looking a little more herself, he thinks, if still somewhat rattled.

“I have moped for long enough,” she declares. “I believe I have reports from the Exalted Archipelago waiting for me on my desk that I have been neglecting for weeks. And I must speak with Blackwall on the Wardens, again. We must see poor Aevalle through this as quickly as possible.”

With that, they bid each other farewell and part ways—Cassandra with more of her usual determination back in her step, and Solas with soft, but firm steps, his shoulders still a little tighter than normal.

He passes by Varric—it is exceedingly unusual, that the writer is up and about so early—coming down the steps that lead to the rookery, but he only gives a slightly sad smile and a wave, his own eyes heavy and dark with lack of sleep. He looks as if he has enough distractions of his own, so Solas does not question him.

He slips into the rotunda and locks the door behind him. With a sigh he moves over to the windows to unlatch the shutters, hoping to allow the eastward sun in. Perhaps he will clear his mind by working on some of the details of Cassandra’s portrait, though the sitter is not there to model for him. Perhaps distracting himself with work will help clear his head.

He does not quite succeed—only when he has begun, hand on the latch, does he hear the soft sound of breathing from the couch on the other side of the room.

He stills. But then there is a second breath, a soft exhale, and he remembers how it sounded against his flesh, in a dream of aravels and soft furs, and he cannot help a smile as he turns.

Now that he is looking for her, he can see her quite easily—curled up into herself, a blanket on the floor beside her. Shivering, he notices, as she tries to curl up even tighter, and he is walking across the room towards her without even thinking.

He picks the blanket up off the floor, ensures that it is clear of dirt, and then tucks it around her as gently as he can. She burrows down underneath it without waking—instinctively, perhaps—and he sees the crease of her brow unfurrow, some.

Under her eyelids, her eyes are flicking back and forth. Dreaming, then. And perhaps not a pleasant one.

It only takes a thought to banish it—only a touch to her forehead, and a whisper of power from his steadily building reserves. He watches as her expression eases, as some of the tension leaves her and she uncurls, a little. Relaxing into deep, dreamless sleep.

He stays there a while, crouching before her. Brushing her hair out of her face with his fingers, unable and unwilling to break that point of contact between them. His anger from before dissipating, now, and becoming something…

When he does manage to pull away, it’s to build a fire in the fireplace. To warm the room a little for her—she still feels cold to the touch, even with the blanket. The evenings have grown quite cold, as of late, and this rotunda is too exposed to the elements to retain any of the heat of the day, even with the windows all shuttered. The only reason it was still available for him to claim as his studio, he supposes.

There is a kettle and a tea set on one of the tables, left by Varric during Cassandra’s last sitting. He turns up his nose at the tin of dried leaves, but there is a pot of honey, and if he remembers correctly there is a bowl of lemons somewhere…

He tries to sketch, while she sleeps. But he is only thinking of her, asleep across from him—and every line he draws is the curve of her face, or her smile, or the line of her limbs as she stretches, the determined shape of her mouth as she finds a challenge or puzzle she must solve.

The downward twist of her lips, the slope of her sinking shoulders, as she signs herself to slavery. Just with a different name, this time.

The charcoal snaps, and he bites back a curse. Tries to steady his shaking hands, tries to reign back on the rage that is bubbling to the surface again—

She makes some small breath of discomfort, and before he even realises it he has rushed to her side. Touching her again, to see if she is too warm now.

Only… his hand lingers. The back of his hand pressed to her brow becomes a caress, his fingertips flitting along the lines that decorate her cheekbones.

She shifts, and he snatches his hand back. But she still sleeps, possibly due more to how much alcohol she must have drank the night before than to anything else.

He brings his hand to his brow. Time, he had asked for—and here he is, unable to stop himself from touching her while she sleeps. Enraged on her behalf, for his inability to keep her free.

Wisdom, he thinks. He needs to speak with Wisdom.

 _But…_ He looks down at Aevalle, breathing steadily and softly under the blanket, more of her hair than herself poking out from under it, and...

Later, perhaps.

When she finally wakes—signified by the rustle of the blankets, and a long sigh that would probably be a groan, if she were capable of making noise without great pain to herself—he is sketching her, hair thrown over one shoulder. Scales like freckles on her face.

He closes his sketchbook and busies himself with pouring the prepared water from the tea pot, keeping warm by the fire, into a cup for her. He tastes a little to ensure it isn’t too hot, and then brings it to her, where she has just thrown the blankets over her head.

“Aevalle,” he says, gently. “I would bid you good morning, but I believe it is well past noon.”

She exhales, slowly.

He cannot help a smile. “I have something for you,” he tells her. “An… ancient elven hangover cure I witnessed in dreams.”

She lowers the blankets enough to squint up at him. Not amused by his teasing, it seems, but after a moment she pulls back the blankets and sits up enough to accept the cup and saucer from him.

She makes a face at its sweetness. But she drinks it easily enough, and then the next cup he pours for her as well.

 _Thank you_ , she signs, when she has put the second cup aside. She is still squinting, though the light is not particularly bright in the room.

“May I?” he asks, and she nods without really giving it much thought.

He leans in and presses a hand to her brow—and with another little touch of power, banishes a little of the ache from her head.

“Better?”

She blinks up at him, wide-eyed, for a moment, before nodding again.

He is, he supposes, very close.

“I suppose you might like to change your clothes,” he says, as she is still wearing what she changed out of the green dress into once safely back inside Keeper. Not that he isn’t also wearing precisely what he wore yesterday, but that is neither here nor there. “I could walk with you, if you like?”

 _As we used to_ , he almost says. But he refrains—thinking that perhaps admitting that things have changed between them is unwise, in this moment. With the way she is looking at him now—as if she would like him to move closer again, but she does not know how to tell him that.

He asked for time. She is giving it—it would be cruel, with everything that has happened, to drag it on much longer.

And yet… he hesitates.

 _I will speak with Wisdom, first_ , he thinks, as they walk the battlements that lead to their rooms. It always has a way of putting things into perspective—he is certain that it will remind him of what is important.

Unbidden, the memory of its words when they last spoke comes to mind. _You are so certain these days_.

Aevalle tugs at his sleeve, and he is shaken from his thoughts.

 _You weren’t joking, though_ , she starts, tilting her head to the side. _You meant it—that you dream of the ancient past. Of Arlathan._

“Of course,” he replies.

Before he can ask her where this is coming from, however, she asks him, her hands in a flurry of motion, _Can you tell me about it? Everything you know?_

He can’t help a laugh—not at her eagerness, never that. But at the audacity of the question—the sheer scope of it. “ _Lethallan_ ,” he says, “I have spent a lifetime dreaming of the ancient world. It might take me some time to convey it all to you.”

 _Well you better start soon, then_ , she teases. The smile she grants him is so easy, so free, that he can almost pretend the events of the past few weeks have not happened. That she is standing before him, and he has just acknowledged that they have shared a dream—that no magister has walked up the stairs to steal her away.

That he had not asked for time. That instead, he had swept her up and…

“Imagine the shallows that stretch before you alive with magic,” he says, gesturing to the docks below them. “Imagine the currents bustling with spirits, great cities that sprawl between ocean and land—the depths themselves alight, and with every swell of the tide every living thing felt the great energy that the ocean provided, free for the taking.”

 _What did they eat?_ she asks, eyes wide, and Solas cannot help but laugh once more.

“Whatever they liked,” he tells her. “Land, sea, animals plucked from the sky—the whole world was their bounty. Creatures that no longer breathe—fish that had lived for centuries, and had grown larger than any of the boats docked here today. Jellyfish made of spun light that tasted of frost and bubbled like champagne on the tongue.”

 _I’ve never had champagne_ , she tells him.

“It is delightful,” he replies, “though I thought that, after last night, you would be less interested in libations than, perhaps, how they recovered from the effects of them.”

 _Asshole_ , she signs affectionately. And then she shoves him a little, for good measure, when he perhaps laughs a little too long at her expense.

 _Were they really immortal_? she asks, as they continue their walk—setting a slow, ambling pace, that will probably get them to their rooms by sundown, at best.

He hesitates. “Yes,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “They were.”

She seems to catch the change in his mood—perhaps he doesn’t hide it that well, as he is suddenly looking at her very intently. Her head tilts, slightly, as she takes in his expression—and he looks at her neck, covered still, as if he can see the power that rests within it.

 _What was that like?_ she wonders. _I think after a hundred years or so, you’d run out of things to do. Wouldn’t you?_

“Hardly,” Solas says.

She blinks, startled by the intensity of his answer.

“Imagine,” he says—moving a little closer to her, closer than he has thought wise in weeks. “Imagine learning to paint in one method, mastering it for a century—and then you spend the next turning it on its head, every year breaking a new rule that you followed diligently for fifty. Imagine visiting every place in the world—diving to every depth, feeling every current on your face. And then, at the end of it all, going back to where you started, and finding subtle changes since your last visit. Exploring the world all over again.”

She does not respond—wide-eyed, enthralled. Her hands nearly brush his as they walk, side by side.

“Imagine,” he continues, very softly. “Imagine meeting the most beautiful woman in the world. And you—and you spend a thousand years, perfecting how you will speak to her next. Crafting the most beautiful gift to give her, to initiate courtship. And she accepts, responds in kind, and then—and then you dance around one another, birds in flight, dolphins in the sea, two currents that swirl around one another and never meet. And after thousands of years have passed, after you have proven your devotion to her by mastering her every whim—only then do you dance in truth.”

His knuckles brush against the back of her hand. She is smiling now, her eyes slightly hooded as she regards him. As she leans in a little, and he is pulled a little closer in turn.

 _I don’t have a thousand years, Solas_ , she tells him—and he does not think he is imagining it, but there is something a little like sorrow in her expression.

He does not know how to respond to that.

She happens to glance out at the ocean, then—possibly a little embarrassed, or displeased by his silence.

And then her steps slow, until she has stopped, staring down at the docks with a curious frown.

“What is it?” Solas asks, as she approaches the parapet. She plants her hands on it and leans out, frowning down, but does not explain.

Solas approaches her side—and very quickly spots one small, bright red sail, sticking out among all the others at the dock.

An aravel.

They make their way down the path to the docks—not attempting to rush, at first, but soon Solas finds himself struggling to keep up with Aevalle. It’s… unusual, he knows, to see a Dalish ship docked here. Most of them avoid human authority at all costs—especially those associated with the chantry. He’s certain that he hasn’t seen a single aravel here since he came to Seahold.

“Why do you think they’ve docked here?” he wonders—lengthening his strides to keep from losing Aevalle in the crowd.

She does not have the space to reply—but the curious furrow of her brown confirms that she also finds it concerning.

As they come close to the aravel—its sails raised and secured now, but still bright among all the white and grey—they hear the argument, long before they can even see the people involved.

“But I’ve _spent_ all my coin on supplies,” comes the voice of a young man in a Dalish brogue—Southern Dalish, Solas thinks. Not a Marcher like Aevalle. “I don’t have any left for your docking fee.”

“Then you cannot dock here!”

“Oh, I’m not staying long, I won’t be any trouble. I’m looking for someone, see—Dalish, like me? Goes by Lavellan?”

“It does not matter how long you are staying, you must pay the docking fee if you choose to dock here! Those are the rules!”

Solas reaches forward and grabs Aevalle’s hand, so he won’t lose her in the crowd that is gathering to watch the argument. “Do you recognise him?” Solas asks, when she glances back at him.

She shakes her head, then tugs him onward.

“Look, boy, if you want to find this girl so bad, you’ll have to find somewhere else to shore your boat. A lot of money goes into these docks, including paying me. If I let everyone with a quick errand in without paying, where would we be?”

“But it’s an _emergency_!”

And then Solas hears a familiar voice rise above both—Varric’s, of all people.

“Alright,” the dwarf says, “I’ll pay the kid’s fee. Everyone happy?”

Solas and Aevalle break through the crowd. The dock manager is scowling down at Varric—displeased, but with a glance or two up at Bull, towering by the dwarf’s right side, and Dorian on the left with an amused expression, he clearly decides to leave it be.

Cole hovers nearby—confirming Solas’ suspicion of how they got there so quickly.

He holds out his hand to accept, and Varric makes a show of handing over significantly more coin than is required. Likely an incentive to get him to wander off, Solas thinks—which he immediately does, without so much as a backwards glance at the young man standing there, currently blinking down at Varric with an owlish expression.

“ _Ma serannas,_ ” he says. “Or, thank you, rather. I’m afraid I’ve never had to pay a docking fee before, so I didn’t expect one—but Creators, this place is busy. How am I going to find that Lavellan girl in all of this?”

“You’d be surprised,” Dorian drawls. “You said it was an emergency—pray tell what kind?”

The Dalish man pauses, frowning at Dorian. “It’s a secret,” he says. “Now, thank you, but I have to go find her, it’s truly very urgent—”

“Don’t have to look far,” Bull supplies, helpfully pointing to Aevalle and Solas. “Boss! Friend of yours?”

The young man turns—and his eyes widen when he sees Aevalle, who is standing there and watching him curiously.

He does not hesitate, once he sees her. He runs to her immediately, nearly skidding on the slick docks before her, grinning from ear to ear.

“ _Mythal’enaste!_ ” he exclaims. “You’re from clan Lavellan, yes?” He barely waits for her to nod in reply before he continues, “I knew it! I think—oh, you wouldn’t remember me, but didn’t you sing at the last Arlathvhen? I remember your hair and—and you played the fiddle? Clan Lavellan’s famous songbird?”

Aevalle gestures to her throat with a sad smile.

“She does not speak, due to an injury,” Solas clarifies, his words short and clipped.

Aevalle gives Solas a chiding look.

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that.” He looks awkward for a moment, vibrating a little as he clearly waffles between asking her more and continuing with his own questions. He settles on the latter, however, leaning forward in his enthusiasm. “But, it is so good to have any word of Clan Lavellan! We sent some of our hunters to request aid from your Keeper months ago, and we only found—well.” His expression falls, a little. “We feared the worst. Please, I need to speak with your Keeper, it’s an emergency—can you tell me where to find her?”

She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Aevalle is the last surviving member of Clan Lavellan,” Solas explains.

The young man looks at her for a heartbeat—and then, before anyone can react, he throws his arms around her and wraps her in a fierce embrace.

She stiffens, initially—and Solas nearly shouts at this stranger for the impropriety of it. But her shoulders slump, and she relaxes—returns the embrace slowly, hesitantly. Ducks her head and buries it in his leathers, for a moment. Her shoulders rising and falling as she inhales, then exhales.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, very softly. Pronouncing the words completely wrong, Solas notes with some bitterness. “ _Ir abelas, lethallan.”_

They break the embrace slowly, Aevalle’s eyes looking a little wet but no tears have been spilt. They clasp each other’s shoulders a moment, before he pulls away.

“My name is Loranil, and I’ve sailed a long way to find you,” he explains. “Aevalle, I know it’s rude to ask, but I need to know. Can you…”

He hesitates, glancing up at Solas, then around himself at the crowd that is slowly moving about its business.

He turns back to her and, in a low voice, asks, “Do you have the—the _gift_?”

Before Aevalle can answer, Bull plants a firm hand on his shoulder. “Do you mean, can she grow a tail and outswim a dragon?”

“Yes to the first part,” Varric chimes in, slapping Loranil on the back, “and no to the second. Though it was close, apparently.”

 _Very close_ , Aevalle insists, with a crooked grin.

“Oh,” Loranil says, looking at her hands. “Oh—the Keeper uses those, sometimes. He tries to teach all of us when we’re young but uh, I sort of never paid attention, because I never much saw the uh, point.”

“Bet you’re kicking yourself now,” Bull says.

“Well—” Loranil sighs. “Well, it’s mostly for taking to each other underwater, which is no good if you can’t—you know—but _they know_?” He looks among them, baffled. “ _Lethallan_ , it’s your secret to share, but—they are—one of them is—”

 _I trust them_ , she signs, Solas dutifully interpreting.

“Of course,” he says. Then he takes a deep breath, and says, “Aevalle of Clan Lavellan, I must formally request your aid on behalf of my Keeper. Not that he knows I came here because I sort of took off when I heard you might be here… I’m probably going to be scrubbing the aravels for a month for this, actually. But! Besides the point!”

He grabs her hands and holds them in his own, tightly. Aevalle raises her brows, but does not object. More surprised than anything else, Solas guesses.

“There is a girl in our clan who has the gift,” he says. “And—and we have no one to teach her how to use it. Will you help us?”

Solas frowns. “I do not see how that is particularly dire,” he says, right as Aevalle nods furiously, her eyes wide as saucers.

She jerks her hands out of Loranil’s grip. _Follow me,_ she signs, and turns on her heel to tear through the crowd.

“Aevalle!” Solas calls, as Loranil rushes past him.

Dorian, quick to react, is hot on her trail. Even as Solas moves to follow, he can hear Dorian interpreting— _how long, is someone watching her at all times, does she still respond when you speak to her—_ and Loranil’s shouted replies. “Three months! All times, we take turns! And yes, but she’s getting worse!”

He catches up to them in the courtyard proper, Loranil having grabbed Aevalle’s arm and stopped her, finally.

“I don’t understand—my aravel is at the docks, Aevalle. How are we to get back to my clan without a ship?”

Dorian laughs, and clasps his hand on the Dalish man’s shoulder. “Oh, trust me,” he says, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Hers is faster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be real, if they had told Cassandra that the Divine was being impersonated by a spirit, shit would have gone down so fast we all would have gotten serious whiplash from watching it happen.
> 
> Solas: *drawing Aevalle while she sleeps* Yes I am going to Call This Off before anyone gets hurt, yes, that is 100% the call I am going to make in this situation.  
> Aevalle: *breathes*  
> Solas: *fusses and rearranges her blankets*
> 
> Loranil: I am so, so sorry *shows friendliness and comfort*  
> Solas: HE SAID IT WRONG. *pouts and convinces no one that he's not jealous*


	17. Elves and the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of discussion and descriptions of drowning or near drowning experiences. This is important to lore, but I can provide a modified chapter if anyone needs it, it just won't be elegant. [Message me on tumblr if anyone requires this](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/ask) (anon is on) and I'll set it up.

“I can’t believe we didn’t drown,” Loranil says as he stands on the _Keeper’s_ deck and stares, wide-eyed and breathless, at the sun rising over the cluster of islands to which they have broken the surface. All around them are dark cliffs, though the light cuts a line past them—catching on the leaves of trees with roots that dangle into the air above them, and the long vines of arbor blessing that stretch from light to shadow.

They have surfaced above a shallow reef that winds its way through the heart of an island, ocean water pouring in through a network of underwater caves that the _Keeper_ has just passed through. It appears from all sides to be utterly inaccessible any other way, save for a small gap where the ocean does not quite rise to meet the cliff above it. Definitely not tall enough for a ship of any consequence to pass through, but at low tide… an aravel with its sails down would just make it.

“Awfully close to the fighting to hide a Dalish clan, isn’t it?” Varric wonders, glancing over his shoulder towards the sheer cliff at their backs, where just across the channel the fleet loyal to Gaspard is anchored, near to one of the larger islands.

“Oh they’re not fighting each other,” Loranil tells them. “Not for weeks before I left. Not sure why—but they still haven’t moved, either. The Keeper was sending us to scout and figure out why and I was supposed to see what Celene’s army was doing but then—”

Bull puts a heavy hand on Loranil’s shoulder with just a little more force than necessary. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s all very interesting, but maybe we could speak to someone who _actually scouted_ before running off to…” He pauses, blinks, and looks up at Aevalle. “Boss, what exactly are we doing here?”

She is standing at the _Keeper’s_ prow—where she ran right out with ocean water still pouring in streams off the deck. She is staring directly at a bend in the cliff wall, where the enclosed ocean winds its way around a corner.

“Tiny, are you implying that Drifter’s been terribly vague about why we’ve just dropped everything to sneak into a war zone?” Varric glances over at Aevalle, but he can feel his easy smile faltering a bit around the edges when he catches sight of the stiff line of her shoulders.

She doesn’t budge at his teasing—not even to roll her eyes, or accuse him of being dramatic.

Strange, Varric thinks. She was so rushed to get here, but now she’s just... standing there.

Solas is standing at Varric’s side, and the dwarf can practically _feel_ how badly Solas wants to cross the deck and comfort her. He can picture it, even—a gentle hand on her shoulder, directing her attention away from whatever thought she’s lost herself in.

But, instead, Solas hesitates so long that Varric has to cross his arms over his chest to keep himself from grabbing the artist by the arm and marching him over there himself, and Dorian sweeps past them both with soft, confidant steps, to stand at Aevalle’s side.

The Tevinter altus says something, low and gentle, but Varric can’t make out any of it. Then he reaches out and clasps his hand on Aevalle’s shoulder, smiling at her until she ducks her head and her whole body visibly relaxes.

A quick glance up confirms that Solas is watching the whole thing; staring at her exactly as he did that day in the town square, when she played the fiddle.

“You know,” Varric says, “there’s bound to be quite a few young, strapping Dalish folk around that corner.”

Solas narrows his eyes curiously as he peers down at Varric. “Strapping?”

Varric stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shrugs. “You know what I mean. Attentive. Eager to please. Entirely less hesitant than, say, certain apostate painters.”

The apostate in question raises a single brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Varric only laughs a little. “You’re smarter than that, Chuckles,” he says, as the ship rounds the bend to a wide, open cove, where the sunlight beams down on a small collection of aravels that have been anchored, their red sails lowered and secured but brilliant in the sun’s light. Just under the surface, sleek white forms can be spied on occasion, darting between the little boats and all around the cove, occasionally breaching and spouting little bursts of water from their blowholes.

There is a pebble beach, and a gently sloping stretch of shore that is populated by a number of elves. Some of them have spotted the approaching ship already, and Varric hears more than one cry of alarm go up, and he sees a few of them reach for their weapons.

Loranil runs to the prow of the ship and waves his arms. “Don’t worry!” he calls. “They’re here to help!”

“Loranil?” someone shouts back, after a moment. “Where the _hell_ have you been?”

Loranil and Aevalle secure an aravel for the others to ferry themselves to shore upon—Varric is eternally grateful no one has to witness his pathetic attempts at swimming—which gives the Dalish clan plenty of time to scramble about and arm themselves, in spite of Loranil’s continued reassurances.

When they arrive, there are a number of hunters standing there, spears in hand but not pointed at anyone. Any children Varric spied earlier have vanished up into the trees further up the shore, and presumably anyone not prepared for combat has gone with them. There is one older man with them—Varric can’t guess his age, but he seems older than Solas—and while he is unarmed, those who are form a line between him and the party coming to the shore. Most of them are dressed in a curious mix of worn leather, soft woven fabrics, and factory made clothing, but the old man seems more traditionally dressed than the rest of them; only his pants seem to have been purchased, the rest of his clothing clearly old and handmade. His vest is well-worn, but sturdy looking, and sports a high collar that none of the other Dalish clothing seems to have.

Varric thinks it’s funny that no one seems to be able to decide who to watch more carefully—Bull, or Dorian.

“Keeper Hawen,” Loranil says as Aevalle finishes pulling the boat to shore. “Keeper, I have—”

Aevalle pauses, a slightly confused look on her face at the name. As she drops the rope and turns, the old man lets out a startled gasp, and immediately shoves past the youth guarding him. He reaches Aevalle and pulls her into a fierce embrace, much like Loranil had.

They stand there for a moment—and Varric watches as Aevalle returns the embrace, burying her face in the man’s leather clothing—before the man murmurs something, and they pull apart. He grasps her by the shoulders and looks at her, smiling, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You look so much like your mother,” he says, very gently. “ _Da’len_. I thought—I feared—your clan, what happened?”

Aevalle begins to sign—where none of their party can see to interpret for her—and Hawen leans back so he can see. Initially surprised, if his expression is anything to go by, but when he steps back enough so that he can see the movement of her hands, Varric watches only understanding, and a great sorrow that he tries to contain.

He closes his eyes briefly—wearing the expression of a man who has suspected the worst, had dared to hope it was not true, only to have it confirmed for him.

When he opens his eyes again, he is looking over Aevalle at everyone assembled behind her—Varric, Solas, Bull, Dorian, and Cole—with hard eyes.

He moves around Aevalle, placing himself between her and them—much to her chagrin, since he ignores her further attempts at signing as he does so.

“Thank you, strangers, for returning Aevalle to her people,” he says.

“Keeper,” Loranil says, “they’re here to help with—”

Aevalle clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed, and tugs on the Keeper’s jacket until he turns to face her, frowning.

 _They’re with me_ , she signs, with short, impatient motions. There’s another sign in there that Varric doesn’t recognise—possibly the Keeper’s name, or a title. _Where’s the girl? Who’s watching her?_

He hesitates a moment, clearly surprised. He glances over his shoulder, warily, but Aevalle exhales sharply so his attention is on her again.

“Her mother is with her,” he answers, clearly uncomfortable. “ _Da’len_ , are you certain...?”

A woman’s voice rises from the trees nearby, high and frantic. She shouts again, and again, closer, and Varric realises it’s a name. “Melena!”

A look of alarm passes among the Dalish—Loranil and the Keeper included. They part, and a woman comes running through the crowd. She’s wearing boots, unlike the other Dalish, and very few handmade pieces, but she has vallaslin all the same.

“Keeper,” she cries, seeing him. “Keeper, Melena’s run off again. Did she come this way?”

The hunters all look to the Keeper, who suddenly looks very pale. “Find her,” he snaps, and the hunters scatter without a second thought. Some of them vanish into the trees, and some of them make for the aravel already on shore. Varric and the others are buffeted by a flurry of movement that is over nearly as soon as it began—and by the time Varric has steadied himself, there is only Aevalle, the woman, the Keeper, and the party from Seahold standing on the beach.

“She normally runs right to the closest beach,” the woman is saying, her voice still panicked. “I don’t understand—where would she have gone?”

 _This beach was full of people who normally stop her_ , Aevalle signs, though the woman only stares at her, completely uncomprehending. _She’d try to find somewhere secluded, if she still has the sense not to jump off a cliff. How many beaches are on this island?_

“Several,” the Keeper answers. “I would say most of them inaccessible from land, but Melena’s proven... _tenacious_ in that regard.” He pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid that I don’t know for certain which she would run for.”

 _Solas_? Aevalle signs, turning.

The apostate in question does not see her; he is already standing with his feet in the water, his back to the shore. His eyes are closed and his head is bowed, as if in deep concentration. Cole is standing beside him, murmuring something Varric can’t hear.

“I am not certain,” Solas says, slowly, “but I think the pull is stronger on the far east of the island. There is a small beach there where I believe it is gathering.” He opens his eyes and points to the far side of the cove. “There is a cavern there that will lead you to it, if you follow the current.”

While Varric is squinting, trying to see the cavern Solas is pointing at, Aevalle is off like a shot; running straight into the water without hesitation, throwing her outer layers off as she goes, the light catching on brilliant azure and gleaming copper scales emerging from her skin. Glittering like so much finery by the time she leaps into the water, delicate fins spreading behind her.

“This way,” Solas says, and he takes off into the trees.

The Keeper and the girl’s mother share a wary glance, but after a moment’s hesitation they follow.

It becomes clear fairly quickly why he told Aevalle to swim—the terrain is nearly impassable. Between the thick foliage and the uneven ground, Varric is impressed they make it through at all. Bull attempts to carve a path through with his sword, but quickly gets left behind simply due to his sheer bulk. Solas and the other elves slip through quite easily, Dorian hot on their heels—the kid is somewhere, Varric thinks, though he wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him that Cole could teleport considering how he just seems to _appear_ wherever he pleases.

Eventually, the trees break, and Varric stumbles to a halt on the crest of a small yet steep hill, at the base of which is a small beach of sharp grey stone. Only Solas’s hand on his shoulder keeps him from toppling right over.

The sun is bright after the relative darkness the trees provided, and Varric has to blink several times before he spots two figures down below. One of them is a child, possibly six or seven, with a head full of tightly curling hair. Aevalle is in her elven skin, not a scale or fin in sight, following the girl into the water, tightly holding her hand. In her other hand, she clutches one of the sharp stones from the beach.

“What is she doing?” the mother asks, somewhere to Varric’s right, only for the Keeper to hush her gently.

Aevalle doesn’t let the girl go far—Melena tries to wade in past her stomach, but Aevalle stops her with a gentle tug. The little girl turns and looks up at Aevalle with wide, slightly feverish eyes, but does not fight her. She just stands and stares, her expression vacant, and waits.

Aevalle takes a deep, shaking breath, then kneels in the water, her right side to the shore.

She directs the girl to kneel in front of her. Then she takes the sharp stone, and presses her own finger to one of its points until she breaks skin, and a little bead of blood wells up. Then she reaches forward, and gently touches the girl’s bottom lip with her bleeding finger.

Varric counts three long breaths before the girl licks the blood from her lip.

Aevalle smiles, nervously, before closing her eyes, leaning forward, and pressing her forehead to the girl’s.

And... nothing happens. Varric waits, thinking that maybe there’s going to be some kind of... glowing, or something. But Aevalle doesn’t even bring her own scales out or anything—she just stays there, very still, while the girl stares vacantly at her face and their foreheads touch, and the waves surge forward and recede...

As they rush in, Aevalle breathes in. As they retreat back to the open sea, she breathes out.

Eventually, the little girl’s chest begins to rise and fall in the same slow, slow pattern. Matching Aevalle breath for breath, and she gradually closes her eyes.

And then the sun begins to catch little bits of glitter on Aevalle’s flesh—a few freckles of blue and copper, single scales that rise from her skin with the approach of each wave, and then slowly fade away as the water rushes back. Bit by bit, scale by agonizing scale.

They must stand there for an hour, watching, saying nothing, before Varric notices a change in the girl—a single dot of orange gleaming on her dark, dark skin. The Keeper exhales, relieved, at the sight of it, and Varric feels a tension leave him that he doesn’t quite understand.

Aevalle trembles, the moment it appears, and a very small smile breaks her otherwise focused expression.

Within the space of a few hours, Aevalle has fully transformed, and the girl before her has too—her scales all the colours of a sunset, orange and yellow and red all over, her fins small but catching the light like a burning flame in the water around her.

And then, slowly, bit by bit, they both shift back, until there are simply two elves, kneeling in the water.

Aevalle leans back, with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion, and the girl blinks as if she’s just woken up from a long, long nap.

“Oh,” she says, very softly. As if someone has just explained something very seriously to her, and she is a little overwhelmed. She looks up at Aevalle, frowning, before she looks back to the shore, and sees everyone standing there.

Her eyes light up, and she grins. “Mamae!” she calls, and leaps to her feet. “Mamae! Look!”

She shifts her form quickly then—almost in the blink of an eye—and topples backwards into the water with a surprised yelp.

Aevalle clasps her hand over her mouth to disguise her silent laugh. The Keeper laughs as if it’s been shocked out of him, and the girl’s mother rushes down to the beach, sobbing with relief, with the Keeper following her after only a moment.

Varric stands on the hill for a moment, in between Dorian and Solas, and watches as Aevalle guides the little girl to a proper swimming position. It doesn’t take much teaching, apparently, and Varric can’t help a smile as Melena swims in circles around her mother, who is standing chest-deep in the ocean, still sobbing, but hiding it a little better, now.

He feels as if he should say something—but the words don’t quite come. He’s just so struck by the feeling that he’s witnessed something intensely private, and equally rare.

Dorian and Solas aren’t saying anything either, so it’s probably not just him. But a glance upward and he sees that Dorian is staring down at mother and child with an expression that is a little too full of sorrow for his thoughts to only be in this moment, so Varric decides to leave the silence a while longer.

He expects Solas, at least, to have some sense of humility, in the face of this great feat. But the apostate’s expression seems... _troubled_ , of all things. As if he is looking down at this, and there is something about it that has deeply upset him.

“Chuckles?” he asks, startled by what he sees.

He inhales, sharply. In the space of a heartbeat, his expression is neutral once more.

 

“We cannot thank you enough,” the Keeper says, once the girl is dressed once again and they have begun walking back to the Dalish camp. “For bringing Aevalle to us, at the very least, and again for little Melena...” He exhales. “I must confess, I had lost all hope of finding help for her in time.”

Solas cannot shake the uneasiness he feels at that. That girl would clearly have walked all the way out into the ocean without Aevalle’s guiding hand, and would not have discovered how to shift forms on her own. That is...

“She’s safe now,” Cole says, walking at Solas’s side.

But Solas can only look at Aevalle, wearing Dorian’s shirt and walking beside the Keeper, and feel a pang of guilt.

 _How safe, indeed_ , he wonders.

“All in a day’s work for the Inquisition,” Varric is saying, waving his hands. “Besides, we all owe Aevalle for saving us from a freak with a dragon, so I think the least we could do is help her run a little errand to save a baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” Melena protests. “I have my scales now!”

The Keeper chuckles. Solas isn’t sure, but he thinks there’s something a little wistful about it. A hint of melancholy, perhaps. “Yes, _da’len_ ,” he says, reaching down and gently gripping her shoulder, “you certainly do.”

The girl shrugs off his touch with an eye roll, before running ahead of the group again.

“Melena, slow down,” her mother chides, exasperated, but without any real concern. Solas suspects she is simply too exhausted and relieved to be truly worried. The island is, after all, secure, and the danger has passed. In truth, she looks about ready to collapse and sleep for a week straight the moment they return to camp.

Besides, Solas can hear the girl nearby in the foliage. She doesn’t seem inclined to wander far.

“It is tradition to hold a feast,” the Keeper continues, “when a member of a clan receives their scales. You are all welcome to join us, and to stay the night—any friend of Aevalle is a friend of the clan.”

“Well,” Varric says, glancing up at Aevalle with a small smile, “I think that’s up to our Captain, isn’t it?”

 _Yes,_ Aevalle signs, eagerly. _We would love to stay the night. Thank you._

As they reach Bull—who had apparently given up on trying to get his horns through the dense trees and decided to wait—Solas hears soft steps behind him, stepping daintily around twigs that might break underfoot.

He does not pause until he feels a tug at his vest, and a clearing of a throat that is probably supposed to be subtle.

He turns, obediently, and looks down at little Melena, who lets go of his vest and tucks her hands behind her, bashfully.

“Um,” she says, glancing around him to the others, still walking ahead. “ _Hahren_ , do you—oh, that’ a word for, um..”

“It means, ‘respected elder,’ _da’len_ ,” Solas supplies, when she falters. He squats down, so he can look her in the eye, in an attempt to ease her obvious nerves. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head. “Not really,” she says. “I just—I want to thank Miss Aevalle, for helping me. I’m not...” she scrunches up her face. “I’ve been very far away, for a long time, and I don’t want to worry mamae but...”

Something twists in his chest at her unease. “What do you mean,” he asks, softly, “far away?”

She tilts her head, clearly giving it serious thought. At length she answers, “Like, I was underwater, and everyone was on an aravel on top, and I could hear what they were saying. And sometimes I could almost reach the boat, but there was something pulling me down, and I couldn’t...”

She bites her lip. Solas watches her take a deep breath to steady herself.

“I can still feel it,” she says. “It... never stops pulling, does it?”

He reaches forward and grips her shoulders, very gently. “Never, _da’len_ ,” he tells her, and when she begins to look crestfallen he touches her chin with a finger and tilts it up, so she can see him smiling. “But you have endured the worst of it, I believe. And you have gained something very precious in return for your hardship—now, no matter how hard it pulls at you, you can always swim back to your mother. And, perhaps, bring her a precious treasure from your adventures… other than yourself, of course.”

She giggles a little, and he cannot help the small, soft laugh that escapes him in return.

Then he pulls back his hands, raises one to his chin, thumb extended, and then presents his palm to her.

She blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“That is the sign for ‘thank you,’” he tells her, and her eyes light up.

She practices with him, all seriousness, and he has real difficulty keeping a smile from creeping up his features at the intensity of her focus, the determined lines of her expression. It’s not until he promises her for the third time that she has it correct that she relaxes.

She grins up at him, then throws her arms around him.

“ _Ma serannas, hahren_ ,” she says, her stilted accent muffled against his vest.

He does not even have time to react before she pulls back, whirls on her heel, and starts to race back to camp.

Solas watches her go for a moment, her fleeting form vanishing between the thick trees, his smile slowly fading as he thinks back on what she told him.

Cole’s voice comes from just behind him. “She was very frightened,” he says, softly. “But...”

The spirit’s breath hitches. Solas turns, his expression and thoughts carefully forced neutral.

For his part, Cole is standing there, looking down, his head tilted slightly as he considers what he has learned. Or, perhaps more likely, tries to unravel something that can be easily defined from the tangle of emotion he’s gleaned from Solas. “It’s not right,” the spirit says at length, surprised. “Crashing waves and a crushing current dragging them down, but they don’t remember how to breathe below the surface—they die children, gasping, and _it’s not right_.”

“Cole,” he says, and it sounds like a warning.

It’s cruel, he knows, to keep Compassion from helping. His fingers twitch, as he brings up a wall before his thoughts—where he can feel the spirit reaching, plucking at pain and bringing it to the surface.

Cole’s gaze snaps up to meet Solas’s dead on, his pale eyes wide and uncertain.

Solas inclines his head. “I am sorry,” he says. “Truly. But that is... private.”

“It’s not. Or it is, but it... _shouldn’t be._ ” Cole says. He sounds frustrated, but his shoulders slump and he shakes his head, and Solas knows the matter has been dropped. “I won’t tell her,” he says, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

“ _Hahren!_ ” Melena calls from the dense foliage ahead. “Hurry or you’ll miss the party!”

“A moment,” Solas replies—but when he has turned back, another apology on his lips, Cole has vanished once again. Already knowing, perhaps, any explanation Solas might give.

Melena proves an eager guide back to camp—they have fallen considerably behind the others at this point—though not necessarily an efficient one. The path she leads him on meanders considerably, as she spots some bird in the trees and decides that Solas absolutely _needs_ to see it, or tries to follow the tracks of a small animal and turns them in circles.

He finds he does not mind. He is not eager to return to the bustle of the Dalish camp, and the judgement of a Keeper set in his ways. And Melena provides delightful conversation—though he senses mostly that she is attempting to delay her return to camp until the tremble of her hands has calmed, some.

They are not long behind the others, in truth; a matter of ten minutes at most. They emerge from the trees to the exasperated calls of Melena’s mother and the low tones of Varric’s voice reassuring her.

Solas lingers on the edge of the forest for a while, watching with a smile as Melena endures a half-hearted lecture about _staying close_ while Varric watches on, smirking a little.

“I think you’re going to be hard pressed to keep an eye on her when she can suddenly grow a tail and swim off into the sunset,” Varric tells her.

From the look on her face, she hadn’t even considered that. For a moment she looks about to faint dead away, but then her expression turns fierce and she rounds on Varric. “Don’t give her any ideas!” she chides, and Melena is swept up by another member of the clan.

“Melena!” He lifts her into the air, and she giggles even as she attempts to squirm out of his arms. “It’s good to have you back, da’len. I hear you have the most _wonderful_ scales! Why don’t we all go down to the water and you can show the halla? They’re all so excited to swim with you!”

Solas watches as the whole clan moves down to the water—and sure enough, he can see white forms bobbing in the bay, pointed noses and elegant horns poking out of the water as they wait, eagerly, for the little girl running towards the shore.

Aevalle and the Keeper, however, stand to the side. Not terribly far from Solas, but they do not seem to have noticed him.

She has stopped the Keeper with a touch, and he pauses mid-stride to turn back to her. “Yes, _da’len_?” he asks, a curious expression on his face.

Aevalle hesitates, frowning. Her hands hovering in the air before her, as if she’s not certain she wants to ask the question.

But after a moment, she looks back up at the Keeper. Steeling her expression, squaring her shoulders, she signs, _Why didn’t you help her?_

He closes his eyes. “Ah,” he says, very softly—though there is a great deal of heartache in the single breath he takes to steady himself, shortly after. “I thought that you were too young to remember.”

 _I remember. You have blue scales,_ she signs when he opens his eyes again, _like Mother did._

“Not quite so beautiful as yours or your mother’s, I believe,” he tells her gently, “but I find my memory of my own faded, these days.”

He reaches up and pulls down the high collar of his jacket.

Solas is standing close enough to make out the pale, ugly scars that mar either side of his neck, right over the place where gills appear on Aevalle’s when she shifts her shape. Long and flat, like a hot piece of metal seared right over the skin on each side.

Aevale’s hard expression shatters. She reaches out, as if to touch them, but stops herself before she does. _I’m sorry,_ she signs, as he pulls his collar back up. _I’m—I didn’t know._

“Some humans still believe all their old cautionary tales,” he tells her, “though it was worse when I was younger. The one advantage of this age of industry, I suppose, is that people give less credit to stories of elves and the sea. Plenty of our young hunters share drinks with humans in the towns we trade with, and suffer no greater injury than a stolen coin purse.” He straightens his shoulders, turning now to look wistfully out to the bay. “Had I been less of a fool in my youth, paid better attention to my elders and their warnings, I might have been able to spare poor Melena the danger of these last few months.”

He is still not looking at her, so she reaches out and twines her fingers in his. Whatever he is about to say next, he pauses—and she leans a little bit into him, resting her head on his shoulder, as together they look down into the bay, where Solas can hear the laughter of the clan and the delighted calls of the halla in the water.

Something in the Keeper relaxes, then. And he leans back a little, allowing a little grief to pass over his features, with a weight to the slump of his shoulders that implies it has been quite some time since he has allowed himself to do so.

Solas watches from afar—unnoticed, and unmoving.

 

“Have to hand it to the Dalish,” Bull says as he sits next to Solas later that evening, “they sure know how to party.”

Solas is cupping a drink that is both warm and heavily alcoholic in his hands, and he tries his best not to let Bull jostle it as he sits. The large fallen tree that he is seated on is unsteady on the uneven ground, pulled up from the beach as it was.

“You have certainly proved yourself popular enough among them,” Solas notes, raising his brow at the giggles that rise when Bull raises his glass for two young Dalish women passing them.

Bull shrugs. “Redheads. What can I say?”

Solas rolls his eyes at the Qunari’s grin. “Try not to abuse our welcome. The Dalish are, as a rule, insular—”

A group of children run directly in front of them, laughing, and Solas clamps his mouth shut.

“Melena!” one of them is calling, “Melena! Show us again! Please?”

“Mamae says not after dark!” Melena protests. Solas thinks that she sounds proud to have something that marks her as special, and to hold over the heads of the other children.

The rest of their argument is lost to the laughter of the clan in the night, the pop and crackle of the fires and the sound of Varric Tethras enthralling a captive audience with some story or other while Dorian provides sarcastic commentary.

“Sure,” Bull says. “Hey, speaking of redheads...”

Solas follows the Qunari’s gaze—and across the clearing, he can see Aevalle, lit by campfire and moonlight, and a Dalish hunter about her age offering her the pelt of some aquatic mammal. A sea otter, Solas thinks, though it’s hard to tell in the firelight.

There are some other youth cheering her on with a total absence of subtlety, and the young woman’s face is positively _flaming_.

For some reason, Solas finds himself thinking of Varric’s comment earlier that day, of someone _less_ hesitant.

Solas blinks, and his view of Aevalle and the young hunter is blocked as the Keeper and another of the clan’s elders walk around one of the campfires, their heads ducked together so they can hear one another speak above the sounds of celebration.

“Did you know she’s turned down two others already?” Bull asks, as Solas sits up taller and tries to get a better look.

Of course he does. He’s been watching her all night.

“It is not any business of mine who Aevalle does or does not take gifts from,” he says, and it sound suspiciously like a lie.

Bull lets out a bellow of a laugh before slapping his back, _hard_. Hard enough Solas loses half of his drink to the ground at his feet to avoid scalding himself.

“Relax,” the Qunari says, still laughing a little. “One of the ladies over there said that, to the Dalish, the more mer—eh— _people_ a clan has, the healthier it is. And Lavellan had a reputation for really good, _bloodlines_ , on that front.”

Solas sighs. “I suppose I am to be reassured by you telling me that all these young hunters are only interested in Aevalle because of clan prestige?”

“Oh, not _all_ of them. That young lady right there _definitely_ has a crush, and bad. You can see it in her eyes—she’s picturing two kids, a pretty little aravel with cozy furs and blankets...”

Solas does not look, if only out of spite.

“Keeper Hawen!” someone yells—and it is not a voice Solas is familiar with, but it belongs to an older individual, one with enough respect among the crowd for most of the clan to fall silent. Someone even goes so far as to hush Varric and Dorian’s argument over the tale of Aevalle fighting the Dragon.

An old woman stands in the crowd, leaning heavily on a cane. “Now if I remember correctly,” she says, “there is normally a story told about this time, before we must send the _da’vhen_ off to bed.”

The children complain, but a gesture from the woman quiets them. She is watching the Keeper expectantly, but Solas cannot read his expression from this far away.

“It is traditional,” he says, after some hesitation, “for the one who does the teaching to tell the story.”

It seems like, as one, the entire clan looks at Aevalle.

Solas can see her now—how her hand reaches for her throat, briefly, before she makes a fist with it at her side.

She turns to Varric, and with a smile that is not entirely as easy as usual, she signs, _Will you help me, Varric?_

Varric stands and bows. “It would be my pleasure, Drifter,” he says, and the clan erupts into a frenzy of activity and excitement.

It takes some time before the actual telling begins—all fires but one are put out, and every fallen tree or woven blanket that people have been sitting on are all pulled around it as it is built up brighter.

Varric sits next to Aevalle, cross legged on the ground, sitting far enough apart and facing each other so he can see everything she signs. Everyone else presses in as close as they can, children in the front on blankets, the elderly next and the youth and hunters lounging further back. Bull and Dorian join them, Dorian complaining loudly that he can’t see.

“You can sit on my shoulders if you want,” Bull teases, which only makes Dorian complain louder.

Solas stands just behind all the others, to avoid being pressed shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, and so he has an unimpeded view of the storytellers.

Varric and Aevalle converse briefly in sign before they begin. Varric asks, _What kind of mood am I setting here_ , and, _Should I do a spooky voice,_ among a number of other inane questions obviously designed to relax her.

“Our story begins,” Varric begins, leaving a pause for the crowd to hush one another, “in the ancient days, when the gods ruled sea and land, and the People were long-lived and brimming with the power that ran through every ocean current.”

Aevalle’s expression is serious, and difficult to read. Her signing is slow, measured, and Varric takes his cue from her movements—his voice low, reverent. The pacing of his words matching her nearly word for sign.

“We joined our gods in the Deep, and sang their praises with voices that echoed across the seas. And we did not think twice of the land above, for it was a barren place, and held nothing of the bounty of the sea.”

Something makes Aevalle hesitate there—and perhaps something pained crosses her expression, but it is gone the moment after it appears.

“There is one, however, the Creators called their kin—the Dread Wolf. ”

Dorian puts up his hand, like a child in classes. Aevalle sees him, and gives him a curious look until Varric turns around.

“Sorry,” Dorian says. “I was just wondering—why is he called the Dread Wolf? And not the Dread, I don’t know, Shark or Squid or something more _thematic_.”

Varric turns to Aevalle, who gestures to the nearby children with a smile.

“Well?” Varric asks, and several hands eagerly shoot up.

Melena, star of the evening, answers with a bright voice, “Because the elvhen word for _wolf_ and _shark_ are the same, of course.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian says. “And you go with _wolf_ and not _shark_ because...?”

One of the hunters chides, “Let her tell the story!”

Everyone laughs a little. Aevalle glances up at Solas—he tries to smile, but finds it difficult.

She frowns at his expression and hesitates a moment longer. But then the laughter dies down, and she faces Varric once more.

“The Dread Wolf was kin to the Creators, and yet separate from them still. For while Andruil taught us to hunt and to fish, and June taught us crafting and sailing, the Dread Wolf gave us nothing, for he cared little for us.

“Now it is said that the Creators were fighting a long war with those whose names we do not remember—the Forgotten Ones. It is said that the Dread Wolf walked among them as he did the Creators, for though he was kin to the gods, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways, and shared his apathy for the People.

“One day, the Dread Wolf stood on the shore and called to the People. He promised them a great gift—the power to defeat the Forgotten Ones, and forever secure the favours of the gods. He told them that he traded his scales and his fins for fur and legs, and that he could show them how to do the same. He could teach them to walk on land, and that there was a great power hidden there for those who dared to find it—and that he could not reach it, for it frightened him so.”

Where there was once only empty air at his side, suddenly now stands Cole.

“It’s not _right_ ,” Cole whispers.

“Not now,” Solas hisses back.

Aevalle glances up at him, frowning again at his expression. But she carries on after only a moment’s hesitation, and Varric pretends her pause was to allow him time for a quick drink from his cup.

“So the People rushed to the land—eager to end the war and please their gods. And one by one they changed their shape, until they looked like you or I, and they searched the land above for this secret weapon the Dread Wolf promised.

“Without the People to defend their gods, the Dread Wolf could use all his cunning to lock both the Creators and the Forgotten Ones away. He summoned a great storm that raged for a year and a day, and the creators were trapped in the depths, where they remain to this day. Calling out to us when the moon is full, and the power that escapes their prison is its strongest.

“And as for the Dread Wolf? They say that in every storm, if you listen _very carefully_ , you can hear him laughing all the while.

“The end,” Varric says, leaning back, greatly exaggerating a relaxed posture—it makes Aevalle smile a little, and disguise a small laugh of her own.

“But it’s not!” one of the children cries.

Varric turns to them, mock surprise. “It’s not? There’s more?” He looks back at Aevalle for confirmation, which she gives with a nod. “Well then, by all means Drifter, tell me more.”

Again, she hesitates. She looks up at the Keeper first, whose expression Solas cannot see. Then she looks at Bull and Dorian, until she finds Solas again.

She holds his gaze for a long, breathless moment. He’s careful to keep his expression blank, and he cannot read what she’s thinking either.

She takes a deep breath—and begins again.

“Many years after the fall of Arlathan,” Varric begins, and the crowd almost seems to shift closer, “when our people ruled the Dalish Seas, there was a young elven woman who remembered the old stories, though her elders often told her she needed to get her head out of the seafoam. She played a pretty tune on the fiddle, sang a lovely song, and could track down any creature on sea or land, defend her people from anything that might threaten them.

“One day there was a great storm that shook the city of the elves—and it lasted so long that the people feared it would bury the island upon which it rested beneath the waves. But our hero, she remembered the old stories, and while the storm raged and everyone around her cowered, she _listened_. She stood at the water’s edge, and ignored the whip of the wind and the thrashing of the sea, and she listened, and waited, until she heard it.

“It was someone calling. _Come find me_ , it said, _if you are truly brave._

“She asked, _Who are you_ , but only heard laughter in reply.”

One of the children seated before them whispers a little too loud, “It was Fen’harel!”

Varric makes a little hushing gesture—without any real annoyance—before he continues. “So when the storm looked to move on, our hero took up her boat and followed after it. She sailed past every island in the Dalish Sea, followed it beyond the reaches of the known world—and she sailed past dragons, past great sea monsters, past the Qunari and their great ships. Until, at last, she came to an island that was barren, and empty, save for the Dread Wolf, who was lying in wait for her.

“And the Dread Wolf welcomed her to his island— _Congratulations,_ he said, _on finding me here. Though I’m afraid you’ve come a long way just for me to kill you where you stand._

“ _I did not come here to die,_ she told him, holding her spear and standing tall. _I came here to make a wager._ ”

The children whisper among themselves a moment, and Varric mock-frowns down at them.

“I think Drifter here and I are telling the story,” he chides them, and they giggle before falling silent again. “And the Dread Wolf’s eyes lit up, because he had secretly been hoping she would say that. For he was, and is still, a creature of tricks and games, and it’s not much fun if you don’t have anyone to play tricks or games with.

“So the girl made her wager—if she won, he would give her back the gift he stole from her people, all those ages ago. And if she lost, she would be his to command for the rest of her days.

“First, he told her that she must bring him something to eat, for he was hungry. And she was in the realm of monsters and great, evil beings, none of which were very tasty to eat—but she took her boat, and sailed through all the Dread Wolf’s scattered islands, until she saw white shapes in the distance, leaping from the water. And she followed them—for where there are halla swimming, as you well know, there are friends to be found.

“And sure enough, the halla led her to open ocean, and to a great school of glittering golden fish, as long as her little boat. And they drove them right to her, so she could spear one, and bring it to the Dread Wolf. Who devoured the fish whole, and declared that he was exhausted.

“ _Guard me while I sleep,_ he told her, curling up for a nap.”

“And so it went on. She defended him from all manner of awful creatures while he slept, found him treasure from depths she could barely swim to—until a year had passed, and the Dread Wolf was running out of tasks for her to undertake. And in truth, the tasks themselves began to turn a bit strange; sometimes he only bade her sit and talk with him, and tell him of the world as her young eyes saw it.”

Someone mutters, “This isn’t how the _hahrens_ tell it,” only to be hushed by those sitting near them.

“Finally, he produced a fiddle. And he played on it such a song—a song that could make the most stoic heart break, and the most reserved of elves weep. Even our hero shed a tear, for after a year of only the wolf for company, she was beginning to feel quite lonely herself. Though the halla certainly helped.”

The children giggle a little, but it is quickly quieted.

“Then he gave her the fiddle, and said, _Play me a song_. And there was something strange in his manner, for she hesitated before she accepted it.

“When our hero took up the fiddle, she thought of the last time she played—she thought of her family, who she hadn’t seen in over a year. She thought of her home, and the city she loved. So she played for them—and the song was sad, yes. But it was happy too—for she loved her people, no matter how far away she was from them, and she was eager to return to them and tell them everything she had found beyond the Dalish Seas.”

“And when she was done playing, she looked up at the wolf, and thought his many eyes uncommonly bright. Before she could ask him what was wrong—moved perhaps by a year of constant companionship—he lifted one great paw and pressed a single claw to the skin over her heart.

“ _I believe you earned this long ago_ , he told her, and vanished before her eyes.”

It is not, Solas finds, the end to the story that he was expecting. And, with a glance around at the gathered audience as the applause and cheers die down, it seems he’s not the only one. There are a few furrowed brows among the older listeners—and he thinks he hears a comment about _borderline blasphemy_ —but for the most part, the youth of the clan seem to be pleased by a twist on an otherwise familiar narrative.

“All she has left of him, as he was— _warm hands,_ soft eyes. Saw a kindred soul in all the old stories; love saved him, why not the wolf?”  Cole says, interrupting his thoughts. “You liked it too.”

Solas bristles.

“I prefer the ones where she beats the snot out of him and _takes_ it back,” someone says, loudly, as the clan begins to stand.

Over the chatter of the crowd, the sound of someone quickly tuning a fiddle rises into the night. And then someone taps, tentatively, on a drum, and the high trill of a flute carries over. Someone cheers, and very soon the logs and people alike are being moved further back from the fire, to allow for space for dancing.

Solas catches a glance at Aevalle—who is still engaged in conversation with Varric that Solas can’t make out with the bustle of people between them—and decides that if she is not playing, then he will take his leave. She will have no shortage of dancing partners this night, he knows, and he has… much to think about, besides.

He walks to the trees in the direction of the beach little Melena ran to, earlier that day. He slips into the treeline, confident that he is unnoticed, his eyes picking up what moonlight passes through the thick canopy and allowing him to pass, if only a little slower than during the day.

Alone, he thinks of Melena, running through the trees ahead of him. Her hair bouncing with every step, her eyes bright—

The emptiness of her gaze, as Aevalle stopped her from simply walking into the ocean and drowning in an attempt to answer its call.

How many are not reached in time? How many are trapped in Circles or in cities, somewhere inland, surrounded by people who do not know how to help them—

He has to pause and collect himself. Reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose with a shaking hand.

 _What have I done,_ he nearly asks the empty night.

His thoughts are interrupted by soft steps on the earth behind him, and the sound of skin brushing against tree bark.

“Not _now_ Cole,” he hisses, whirling.

But it’s not Cole. It’s Aevalle, her pupils green in a sliver of moonlight, one hand outstretched to steady herself against a tree as she steps over its gnarled roots.

 _Solas?_ she signs, one handed. Her eyes are wide, and she sways as if she is about to rush for him, but stops herself, leaning back in a retreat at the last moment.

“Apologies,” he says, and does not manage to completely disguise the tremor in his voice. “I—I needed a moment alone. I did not mean to worry you.”

From her expression, he has only managed to distress her further. _I’m sorry,_ she starts to sign, taking her other hand of the tree, _it’s just a story, I didn’t—_

She falters, mid-sign, and her whole body begins to sway forward—and Solas rushes across the few steps that separate them to steady her before she topples right over.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” he says, and she blinks rapidly in response. He is close enough now to notice a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, that her gaze is unfocused, and that though she clings to his arms, her grasp is shaking, weak.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, breathless, as if he does not know she is unable to respond. He releases her with one hand long enough to press the back of it to her forehead, but she only sags forward to lean against his chest. “Are you hurt? Is it your neck?”

She buries her face in his vest and seems to just focus on breathing for a long, pained moment. He waits, trying not to rush her response but desperate for one all the same, until he feels her shake her head, very slowly. Her hands make fists in his shirt, and she makes some aborted attempt at pushing off him to stand on her own before clearly becoming dizzy again and relenting. She presses her forehead against his chest again with an annoyed huff.

He exhales, and wraps his arms around her. It’s strange, he thinks, how small she seems in his arms. As if he has not seen her stand between a blighted dragon and her friends with nothing but a harpoon.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he tells her, softly. And he finds that his words carry the weight of far more than just this moment between them.

She breathes a weak laugh into his shirt.

It’s a testament, perhaps, to how distracted they both are, that Solas is startled by the sound of Keeper Hawen calling for Aevalle nearby. “Aevalle? _Da’len_?”

When Solas looks up, he sees the Keeper approaching, following shortly behind Aevalle. Their gazes meet, and Hawen falters a moment as he takes them in—Aevalle in his arms, in the woods, at night, _alone_ …

Solas cannot think to be embarrassed in this moment. All he can think of is Aevalle refusing pelts from young hunters, and coming after him in the night when she is clearly unwell…

He does not feel smug. _Does not_.

Several emotions flick across the Keeper’s face—and even with elven sight, the light is too dim to make them all out. Solas catches surprise, then relief, but the Keeper certainly glances between Aevalle and Solas more than is necessary.

“She’s not well,” Solas says. “I am not certain what is wrong, we need to get her—”

“Back to camp,” Hawen interrupts, and though his expression is serious he doesn’t sound as worried as Solas thinks he should. “This is perfectly normal, I’m afraid—there is always a great burden on the teacher. She simply needs a few day’s rest, and she will be fine. Though I would have assumed Aevalle would know better than to romp through the woods in her condition.”

The only way to describe the exhale that Aevalle lets out is _disgruntled_ , and Solas can’t help a smile. With great reluctance, she pulls away from him, making placating gestures to Solas and Hawen both.

She makes it three steps before stumbling again, and without even thinking about it Solas sweeps her up into his arms. It’s not the first time he’s carried her like this, but she’s certainly heavier than the last time—he can feel some bulk of muscle built under her skin as he carries her through the woods, her head resting against his shoulder.

“You may make use of my aravel for the night,” Hawen says, indicating the boat in question as they draw out of the treeline. “One more sleepless night will do me no harm.”

Aevalle protests, but the Keeper hushes her before she can get the signs out. “You need rest, _da’len_. And I think I could use some time alone with my thoughts, this night.”

The aravel is close to the shore, so Solas simply wades out and places Aevalle in the little boat. There is still plenty of noise coming from the celebration just up the steep beach, so once Solas has her tucked into the furs and blankets there he climbs in himself.

Aevalle looks up at him wide-eyed, and he tries to ignore what he imagines she’s thinking as he reaches for that place inside him that is connected to the water around them. He raises the anchor and calls a gentle current to steer the aravel through all the others moored there, to the far end of the cove.

He guides the aravel around the small network of channels and caves that cut through the interior of the island, until he finds a small, sheltered cove without any real access from the land. It’s open to the stars, though some of the light is obscured by plants that hang down from the top of the cliffs above them.

He lets the magic go, and just… listens, for a moment. His eyes to the stars, his hand resting on the furs beside him. He can still hear some of the sounds of the celebration, if he strains, but it is dimmed by the distance, stone and plant between them.

The boat rocks a little, and he feels a hand on his. He glances down, and Aevalle is sitting up, retracting her touch now that she has his attention.

 _I didn’t mean to worry you,_ she signs. She looks utterly exhausted.

He can’t help but smile in return. “I fear I will always be worrying for you.”

She tilts her head to the side—and now he can see precisely how feverish she appears, in the crisp moonlight, as she sways a little while she thinks. _I guess this isn’t how it went for you?_ she asks.

Solas busies himself with the anchor. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says, not looking at her.

The boat rocks again, and he feels her tugging at his sleeve. He hesitates a moment—steadying himself, for he _cannot_ deny her communication, no matter how much he wants to avoid her questions.

 _I’m glad_ , she tells him. _I’m glad you weren’t in danger, like that little girl. Like…_

Her hands hang in the air, her gaze turned inward.

The only sound between them is the occasional slap of the water on stone or boat.

“You’ve done this before,” Solas guesses.

She nods, slowly. _I wasn’t supposed to,_ she answers. _It’s better if someone with more experience does it. Someone older. But sometimes…_

She drops her arms to the furs as she thinks.

He watches her, and waits.

 _When I was sixteen, there was a boy in my clan who started showing signs of having the gift. But there was such an awful storm,_ she signs at length. _And it was too dangerous to go out, so the Keeper decided to wait. He wasn’t so far along, he was still lucid. But in the middle of the night, he snuck off, and his father woke the whole clan, sobbing. So some of the hunters took their aravels and went out, and I wasn’t supposed to but…_

Her lips twist downward. _I was never very good at staying put._

Solas can’t help a smile. “I can’t imagine that,” he teases, gently.

If she were feeling better, he suspects she would have smacked his arm for that. Instead she lets out a little huff that’s almost a laugh before continuing. _I found him first. I tried to get him back in the aravel, but then the storm flipped it and… well. I’d seen my Keeper do it so many times, and he’d drown if I didn’t try._

She still doesn’t look at him as she signs, _We almost did, you know. Drown. Just being thrown about by the ocean, and he wasn’t getting it, and I kept swallowing water…_

He wants to reach for her so, so badly. He clenches his fist instead.

She does not notice. She smiles at her memory, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

_Then, just like that, he got it. And he had the most wonderful red scales. I was so sick, I was delirious for... days. Keeper nearly throttled me when it passed, she was so angry. Never heard the end of it, not until..._

Her breath hitches, then, and the tears welling up in her eyes threaten to spill down her cheeks. _I should have left him,_ she signs. _I should have let the ocean have him. Better that, instead of—instead of bleeding to death on a table._

She looks directly at him, then, and when she inhales she begins to cry in truth. _He was fifteen, and they just cut him in half, Solas. Like a thing. All of them—all of them but me, they died screaming. Because of me._

“No,” he says—and he _cannot_ hold himself back a moment longer, cannot stop himself from surging forward and taking her in his arms again. Pulling her close to him, until she makes fists in his shirt and presses her face into his vest, muffling her silent sobs against him. “ _Lethallan_ , this was not your doing. You are a victim in everything that has been done to you. This was _not your fault_.”

She shakes her head, over and over, crying silently against him. And he must repeat it a hundred times— _you are not at fault_ —until either she begins to believe him or exhaustion claims her, and she begins to slump heavily against him.

He gently guides her down into the furs once again—but when he pulls back, she grabs a fistful of his shirt and does not let go.

 _Stay,_ she signs, desperation in her eyes. And when he hesitates, she requests it again.

And, damn his fool heart, he cannot leave her like this. Alone, blaming herself for all of his mistakes.

He relents, and sips under the furs with her. She curls up against him without a trace of awkwardness, tucking her face against his neck, pressing one palm flat against his chest and wrapping her other arm around him, pulling him tight.

He slips an arm under her and around her. He buries his face in the mess of her hair, as if it is the simplest thing in the world.

As he closes his eyes, and listens to the uneven sound of her breathing, the tail end of her exhausted sobs as she drifts away in his arms, he can only think: _oh, but I am such a fool._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, Happy Dread Shark I guess?
> 
> Well it's not completely beta'd, sorry team, it's my birthday tomorrow and I've had such a shit month overall that I wanted this up so I felt like I got something right for once. @_@
> 
> Also re: Solas hesitating when Aevalle asks him to stay. I know you're going to be like "well where the fuck did he think he was going" but Solas was under the delusion that he was just going to swim back to shore and brood in private for the rest of the night, while soaking wet like an enormous dork.
> 
> ANYWAY [theia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias) managed to get a few quality comments in anyway, and here they are:
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  how does he knows this. why do the dalish trust him. where are my sunglasses so i can properly see solas's shadiness
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  LOOK  
> AT  
> THIS!!!!!!!!!  
> THIS!!!! IS HOW!!! YOU COMBINE !!! A FRAGMENT!!! TO MAKE A SENTENCE!!!!!  
> im sobbing so softly but i am so proud of u  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  I'm going to switch it just to make you cry.
> 
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  You're here to search for kiss aren't you  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  shush  
> WHAT DO YOU KNOW  
> IT ONLY SHOWS UP IN THIS CHAT  
> OH MY GOOOOOOOOD  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  XD  
> For the record I said nothing but :D  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  WHICH ALWAYS LEADS TO PAIN AND SUFFERING  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  Oh wow that [animated emoji] looks really sarcastic  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  and yet it is still accurate  
>  **playwithdinos**  
> .... yeah


	18. In Search of Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, death, character death.

Aevalle is telling the story again, but it’s at a different campfire this time.

More familiar, though—it’s one of Clan Lavellan’s preferred beaches to rest for the night. There are tall cedars blocking the night sky at her back, the landscape of a wide cove she knows like the back of her hand spread out before her. Lit by a waning moon, the backs of halla bobbing in the waves, shining like so many stars on the dark, dark ocean.

Her clan does not surround her, however. The Inquisition does.

Cassandra is leaning forward, watching with wide eyes and paying fierce attention to every movement of Aevalle’s hands, listening to every word Varric says.

“You are needlessly embellishing, dwarf,” she accuses when Aevalle’s signs don’t perfectly match up with Varric’s interpretation.

“Let him have a little _fun_ , Cassandra,” Bull says, gesturing toward Aevalle. “Besides, she’d tell him if it bothered her. Wouldn’t you, Boss?”

Before she can answer, Dorian interrupts again. “If I may,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, as if examining a strange puzzle, “you never answered my question. Why _Wolf_ and not _Shark_?”

“It’s not right,” Cole says, distantly. “He called to them from the shore to they could stand tall. They all could—maybe they can, still.”

“Ugh,” Sera gripes, shifting further away from Cole. “Stop being weird!”

“A fine morality tale,” Vivienne says, sitting so tall and proper that Aevalle feels her back straighten to mimic her. “Though, I find it curious that the Dread Wolf is just giving it to her now. What are you implying, Miss Lavellan? I thought this was some great evil creature to the Dalish, yet you paint him in a surprisingly kind light.”

Varric touches her arm to draw her attention back to him, and back to the story. “How many evil eyes did he have, Drifter?” he whispers, all mischievous grin. “Let’s see how long it takes for Cassandra to _scoff_ with disbelief.”

Solas is standing in the back, half obscured in shadow. Every glance she sends his way finds his expression utterly, totally inscrutable. His brows drawn, his lips tight.

He’s staring at her mouth. Just… staring.

Her throat burns, and she keeps telling the story— _signing it_ , telling it, it’s all…

Her mother is nearby, at another campfire. A frown on her face as she signs, _The Keeper will be furious if you tell it like that again, ma vhenan._

Aevalle’s father stands before her, a lopsided grin, his shoulders in an easy slouch. “I think it’s a better story,” he says, in that way that Aevalle knows means he’s trying to avoid the truth.

_You can’t go around telling stories about the Dread Wolf falling in love,_ she chides. _It’s ridiculous, and probably actually blasphemous. What will Aevalle think, growing up with that in her head?_

Aevalle’s breath catches at the sight of her mother’s nickname for her being signed, after all this time.

Her father’s expression grows a little more serious then—though no less soft—and he reaches forward to cup his wife’s face in his hands. “Call me sentimental,” he says, softly, “but I believe a young, fierce Dalish woman once found a wretched scoundrel of a man and made a husband out of him.”

Aevalle’s mother scoffs, but without much strength. _That’s different. You’re a person, not a story._

“And people make stories, my love,” he tells her, before bending down to kiss her.

Deshanna is at Aevalle’s back, leaning over her shoulder.

“Tell it like you should, _da’len_ ,” the Keeper reminds her. “None of your father’s… embellishments, if you please.”

Her hands stall. Varric is waiting, everyone is watching her—

Solas turns and walks away.

_Wait_ , she wants to say. _I’m sorry, it’s just a story. Come back._

Her mouth is moving, and her throat burns, and she can’t speak.

 

She wakes slowly, to the softness of furs, to the gentle push and pull of an aravel in the water, and the sound of someone else breathing beside her, his starched collar pressing against her skin.

It takes her a moment to take all the pieces—aravel, ocean, furs, _Solas_ —and fit them together in a way that makes sense. She’s inclined, at first, to think she’s dreaming about this again, but there’s that collar pressing into her forehead where she’s tucked herself under his jaw, and her arm is a little tingly where it’s pinned against his chest.

Not to mention they’re both fully clothed. She likes to think her imagination is a _little_ better than that.

She shifts a little so she can see him better, in the soft light of a grey, grey dawn rising somewhere behind them. She takes a moment to study the faint freckles that dust his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—and her gaze drops down to his neck, still covered by the high collar of his shirt.

She wonders. All the things she has learned about him since he found her, and yet, this remains a puzzle to her.

She is so, so _certain_ sometimes that he has the gift. That the way he knows the pull of the sea is because it calls to him like it does to her—that he has not told her because he knows that she _knows_ , and it does not need to be spoken between them. But then she begins to doubt. He’s a tide mage, after all, and perhaps he feels it so strongly because the ocean is a part of his magic, and he’s allowed it to entwine with his spirit.

A dangerous thing, some say. But his powers have saved her a few too many times for her to be choosy about where they come from.

Last night, she had _known_. Had felt it like she could feel the call of the ocean, pulling at her even as she showed Melena how to resist its call. But this morning…

She knows that some with the gift, who are poorly taught to use it, cannot truly hide their nature. That sometimes, the flesh where the gills grow never becomes smooth again, after the first time. That they must hide it, or the humans see it and think of old stories…

His brows furrow a little as his eyes move under their lids, catching her attention. His arm tightens around her for a moment, just a little, and it’s enough to prompt her to curl up closer to him again, and tuck her face into his neck.

There are, she thinks with a sigh, too many mysteries with Solas to be fixated on one. So she lets her mind wander from the sea and its call, to his distress during the telling of the story, to the white bracelet with blue beads on her wrist, to kisses in dreams, and what _considerations_ might mean.

 

A few hours later, Solas wakes with a start.

Aevalle has drifted off again, but when he launches himself upright she is immediately alert—especially since he nearly leaps clean out of the aravel in his panic, nearly overturning the craft as he stops himself, clinging to the rail.

She has to throw herself at the boat’s starboard side to compensate, and afterward shift her weight back and forth with the boat’s violent rocking—while Solas remains perfectly still, not facing her, every line of his body taut like a fiddle string.

While the little boat lurches, it doesn’t capsize. It settles, after a short time, and even the sound of the waves they have made lapping on the rock wall around them dies down after a time.

“Apologies,” he stammers into the silence. “I am—”

His breathing is rough, frantic. He is not facing her, so she cannot see his expression as his head drops, and he tries to steady himself. But she can see the muscles of his jaw working as he clenches it, and the sharp line his shoulders are making, stiff as a board.

“I need a moment,” he says, his voice low and unsteady. Sounding utterly unlike himself.

His hands are shaking, even though he’s clenching the rail with a white-knuckled grip. She draws closer to him, then, and reaches for him—her fingers ghosting over his fist, letting her touch ask for her. _What can I do? What do you need?_

As always with Solas, there’s that moment of hesitation. A moment of consideration, of turning over whatever’s stopping him, before he inevitably pulls away.

This time, however, he lets go of the rail and his fingers twine in hers—so, so gingerly. Trembling still—as if he is both too frightened to take comfort from her, and terrified that she will pull away.

He turns a little towards her, then, and she only gets a glimpse of his profile before he hesitates again. But it’s enough, and— _oh_ , he looks so lost. Eyes wide, uncertainty and terror written all over his face.

She cannot stop herself, then, from embracing him. From pulling him into her arms, curling her fingers in the back of his shirt. He does not hesitate this time—he buries his face in her hair, and pulls her tighter to him still—clutching her close, keeping perfectly still as he breathes, just… breathes. For once, taking the comfort she offers him, as his heart thunders in his chest so hard she can feel it against hers.

At length, his breathing evens out. “I must collect my thoughts,” he says into her hair, with a much more even voice. “Would there be… tea, perhaps?”

After reluctantly untwining from Solas’s still firm grip, she makes a mental apology to Keeper Hawen while she rifles through his things. It takes her a few moments, a little digging around because whoever built Hawen’s aravel clearly liked to do things a little backwards from her clan, but she finds a box wrapped in oiled canvas that contains a small metal tea set, and a smaller wooden box filled with earthy-smelling leaves.

Solas fills it with water he’s pulled from the air, and heats it with a thought. He says nothing while the tea brews, his brow furrowed in thought, his mind far away from this little aravel, from this little cove.

They drink together in silence—he makes a face as he does, which she would probably find amusing if he weren’t so clearly upset. But he downs the whole cup in spite of his obvious distaste, as she sips hers, watches him and tries to figure out what he’s thinking.

He seems more himself when he finally puts his cup aside—unsettled, still, but not so obviously distraught.

“I need a favour,” he finally says.

_Of course_ , she signs, once she’s put her cup down. _Anything_.

His mouth twists, but she can’t tell if he looks relieved or resigned.

Then he explains everything, in quiet tones and a voice that is... nearly himself. Unsteady, at times, and as he sits before her she can tell he would pace, if they were not in the aravel. He shifts his weight frequently, and he gestures more than usual.

His friend is a spirit of wisdom. One that has been trapped above the surface, forced into slavery against its will, and is unable to return to the ocean and the safety of the depths.

She can’t help but picture Cole when he says that. And her clan, and what was done to them at the end…

He is still telling her the story while she starts to rig the sail up—and he doesn’t pause once he sees what she’s doing, only gestures for her to sit down again as he guides the boat out of the little cove with currents shaped by his magic. He only lapses into silence when they round the corner to the camp, Keeper’s shape visible in the water below them, a few halla swimming eagerly around the boat, greeting its return to camp as if it were full of fish, and one might be thrown off the boat for them to fight over.

She leans over, running her hand across one’s back in apology. When she turns back, Solas is looking at her. Though his brows are furrowed she can’t quite read his expression; whatever they are, his thoughts are guarded, and he clenches his fists beside him.

She leans forward and takes one in her hand. She pries it open with soft, gentle touches, until their fingers are entwined again.

He leans toward her, a little—his grip tightening, as he does. He watches her eyes for a long, long moment, but she only smiles a little, and waits.

At length, he exhales, and his shoulders finally relax. “Thank you,” he says. “I… thank you.”

She inclines her head.

“There you are!”

Aevalle turns, her fingers slipping from Solas’s, to see Dorian standing on the shore, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks remarkably dishevelled, for Dorian—which means, specifically, that his shirt collar looks a little wrinkled and there is some sand on his shoes. Varric stands on one side, shaking his head with a self-satisfied smirk, while Bull is washing his face in the water a small distance away. Cole stands a little behind and to the side of Varric, wringing his hands.

“I would like to have a word with you about _impromptu camping trips_ , my dear friend,” Dorian continues. “Specifically, places to sleep, or lack thereof. Just because _you_ are fond of snoozing in a tiny rocking boat doesn’t mean that the rest of us are.”

The aravel draws close enough for him to read her expression, then, and he stops mid-lecture. “What’s happened?” he asks, glancing between her and Solas.

_We have to go,_ she signs. _Solas’s friend is in trouble._

She jumps out of the boat and starts to pull it to shore as Dorian squints at Solas.

“And _how_ does he know this?” he asks.

“Weird tide mage shit,” Bull supplies, wading back to shore. “Probably. I’m not gonna think too hard on that one.”

“Friends?” Varric blurts, incredulously. “Chuckles?”

“He comes to me as though these Depths were just another sunlit sea to swim in search of wisdom,” Cole says. “But she is a storm now, rattling her own shutters as she screams.”

Solas glances at Cole with an expression that is… less guarded than usual.

Aevalle gestures to the aravel. _We have to hurry,_ she tells them, _there isn’t much time. We’ll explain on the way._

“Yeah, not sure I want to know,” Bull says as he climbs into the boat. “Just get me there and tell me who to start punching.”

Varric isn’t far behind him. “Please tell me we’re going somewhere with streets,” he pleads as he takes Bull’s hand and is helped into the boat. “And no _sand_.”

“ _Da’len_?”

Keeper Hawen is approaching from the treeline, glancing between her and her friends climbing into the aravel with a concerned expression.

She tells the others she needs a moment, and then meets him halfway up the sand.

He peers over her shoulder. “The hospitality I offered was not for one night alone.”

_It’s urgent_ , she tells him. _I’m sorry._

He looks down at her for a long moment, his expression softening. “In truth, I was hoping I might convince you to stay,” he says, gently, “however…”

He lapses into silence, looking past her once again. Out to the sheltered cove, and the ocean lapping at the shore.

Before he speaks again, she hears someone shout, “Wait!” from somewhere behind him.

She leans around him to look, and sure enough there’s Loranil, racing down from the trees—a bag over his shoulder and a spear in hand.

“I’m coming with you,” he blurts, after skidding to a halt in the sand.

Hawen, for his part, only starts walking towards the aravel her friends have commandeered.

_We’re not going directly back to Seahold,_ she tells him, once Dorian approaches her side to interpret. _There’s someone who needs our help, first._

“And I would like _details_ on that, sooner rather than later,” Dorian gripes, hardly even pausing as he switches from interpreting for Aevalle to lecturing her.

_We’ll take you back to your aravel as soon as we can,_ she tells him, after giving Dorian a pointed look.

“No,” Loranil interrupts, somewhat red in the face. “Miss Lavellan, when I said I was coming with you, I meant—I meant that I would like to join the Inquisition. As a—um. As however you would have me.”

Dorian’s lip twitches, a sure sign that he’s trying to keep himself from laughing poor Loranil back to the treeline. Still, he manages to interpret for Aevalle with a relatively straight face. “She says that you don’t have to do that.”

“But—You have done too much for our clan for us to send you back alone. To—to a strange place! With—um.” He glances awkwardly at Dorian for a moment. “Well. These people are nice enough, but…”

“Nice _enough_ , he says,” Dorian parrots with mock offense. “Clearly he hasn’t been paying attention.”

_Isn’t it up to your Keeper?_ she asks.

Immediately after Dorian interprets her question, she hears Hawen’s voice from over her shoulder. “I have already given my blessing,” he says, and as she and Dorian turn the Keeper comes to stand before her. He is holding a long, old spear in one hand, and there is something smaller that she cannot see clenched in his other.

“Aevalle Lavellan,” he says, with a formality that makes her back and shoulders straighten automatically. “As thanks for travelling across the vast sea to act as teacher to the youth of our clan, I offer this spear.”

He holds it out for her to take—and as she reaches for it, she gets a better look at it, and _hesitates._

It is well made, with a sturdy grip, and there are some traditional carvings near the end, interspersed with a few decorative pieces of halla horn that have been embedded in the wood. The head of the spear is the colour of sun-bleached bone, but with an edge sharper and straighter than any metal Aevalle’s ever seen. She knows without having to hold it that it is made from the bones of those long-extinct whales that wash to shore in some places that only a clan’s Craftsman would know.

Her mother used to take her along when she went looking for it, in the days before she grew ill. She remembers watching her mother work ironbone at dawn’s first light, when both her parents thought she was still asleep, or her mother’s hands carving some errant design at the grip of a spear or harpoon…

Much like the decoration on this one, in fact.

She stands there, dumbfounded, until Hawen presses the spear into her hand himself.

“It served me well, once,” he says, with such a gentleness to his voice she thinks she might start bawling on the spot. “Too fine a gift by far for a foolhardy young man, sent off to become First to a distant clan.”

_I can’t take this_ , she should say. Knows it—but her hand hold a spear of her mother’s make, and she cannot refuse it now, even if she wanted to.

“I thought of sending it to you when I learned of her death, but… well. You were young, and I was not yet Keeper, to ask hunters to search for your clan in my place.”

As she stands there, dumbstruck, until Hawen takes her other hand and presses something small and rough into her palm. A piece of black coral, the length of her thumb. Uncarved, precisely as it was when it was taken from the ocean. It feels… heavier than she remembers, and somehow more delicate.

All she can do is stare down at it.

“It’s all I can spare,” he says. “We haven’t been able to harvest any in… some time. But I believe you have more need of it than us, _da’len_.”

There… there aren’t words. Even if she could speak them aloud, even if her hands weren’t full so she could sign them, she’s sure they don’t exist. So she throws her arms around him, instead—buries her face in the worn leather of his clothing and _breathes_ , just breathes in the salt of the ocean, the musk of animal skin that’s been in the sun for years, and the faint aroma of herbs and smoke that she can trace back to her earliest memories.

It’s not as hard as she thinks it will be to pull away. To back up a step and thank Hawen, deeply and formally, for everything he has given her. Yes, it tugs at her—no, she doesn’t _quite_ want to leave this clan behind, and the friendship they offer. Walking down to the shore, Dorian at one side and Loranil at the other, she finds that she feels a pull at her heart, not unlike the ever-present pull of the sea, but…

Then she looks back to Solas. And he is so clearly straining to keep the lines of his expression neutral, his impatience betrayed by the restlessness of his hands, that she finds her steps quick and eager as she moves from the shore to the aravel.

The sharp line of his shoulders only relaxes some when they stand on Keeper’s deck, the glow fading as the ship opens up for them to descend.

“Thank you,” he says, once again.

She smiles up at him, reassuringly.

Maybe it’s the swell of the sea beneath them, or the pull she feels between them, but she’s sure that he sways a little toward her, and she a little toward him in response—without realising it, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, for her to comfort him when he’s hurting.

It lasts a moment, half a heartbeat, before there are heavy footfalls on the steps behind them, and Solas straightens once more, his steps taking him into the depths of the ship with a renewed sense of urgency.

 

The moment Solas emerges from the ship, he smells the smoke on the air.

He rushes to the Keeper’s rail, his heart in his throat, and scans the docks before them. The town in question—almost a city, he sees with a rising panic—is built on a steep incline that leads away from the sea, and it very nearly blocks out his view of the sky entirely. But distant panicked screams draw his gaze to the east, where he sees smoke rising in the distance.

The others are still rising from the depths of the ship. Distantly, he can hear Dorian complaining and Bull provoking him, but he hardly registers it over the roar of blood in his ears, the tremble of power rushing through him, waiting for him to summon it.

Aevalle stands at his side, following his gaze. She inhales, sharply—and that _sound_ , of all things, is what brings him back to this moment, and he breathes almost as if he’s just broken the surface of the ocean.

“Follow me,” he says, swinging one leg over the rail.

She follows him through the streets of the city like a shadow—always at his side, even when the streets begin to grow crowded with people who have stopped as they walk, peering to Solas’s destination with confused expressions. It is early enough in the evening that the sun has not quite begun to set, but the sky to the east has darkened enough that people are beginning to notice the erratic blue light flickering in the distance.

_No_ , he thinks, over and over. _Not this, too._

It does not take long for the screams to grow closer, and for people to begin rushing through the streets in the opposite direction.

He cannot quite make out what any of them are saying—most of it is cries for Templars or soldiers, or the names of loved ones, or even just _help_ in any form that will come—but all of it is terror, sheer terror, and Solas feels his heart thundering in his chest even as he tries to ignore it all, because surely, surely it’s not as bad as they think…

“Inquisition!” Bull bellows, when the panicked crowd grows dense enough to slow Solas’s passing. “Out of the way!”

He shouts it again, and again, as Solas and Aevalle press forward. Solas is sprinting now, his fingers twitching as he resists the urge to call upon the reservoir in him. The path is climbing higher, away from the ocean—and though his heart pounds, though his breaths grow quick, he tries to force his thoughts _calm_. Collected.

The further they are from the ocean, the more he will have to rely on what power he has already stored within him to help his friend. He cannot waste it all on rushing to them, when it is becoming clear that he might need all his strength once he arrives.

It takes precious time to fight their way through the panicked people rushing towards them—Bull’s bellowing helping to split the shoving, pushing crowd some—but all at once they stumble out of the town itself, passing under a stone archway, and out here there is enough space that Solas can see, down a little sloping hill and over what would normally be a peaceful field full of gently swaying tall grasses, the big top of a circus tent, surrounded by a number of smaller tents.

The big top is aflame—or very near to it. Smoke is pouring out the top, and Solas can make out the occasional flare of magical wards that have just been used up, popping one by one in the early evening sky. Punctuating each, there is a crackling blue light that flickers within the tent, lighting the top of it up like arc lightning across a storm-wracked sea.

He can make out a silhouette within the tent—tall, hulking, horns and broad fins with sharp points…

“No,” he says. He sways a little, at the sight of it—even though he had begun to suspect, he had still _hoped_ … “No, no, _no_.”

Aevalle catches his arm. Her nails dig in just a little, just enough for him to feel it through his shirt.

It’s almost enough to draw his attention away from the horror unfolding before him—but then he spies a human man wearing tall hat and a gaudy coat with dramatic coattails, a and though it looks expensive and well-made, the bright red is so out of keeping with current fashions that the ensemble marks him as the ringleader for the circus.

He is making no move to help those frantically fleeing the circus—he is only waving his arms and shouting at those unlucky enough to be near him.

Somehow, Solas _knows_ : this is the man ultimately responsible for chaining his friend.

Aevalle drops his arm as his feet carry him down the worn dirt road, and once again falls in step at his side.

“I’m ruined!” the man bemoans as they approach. “Utterly ruined! And you’re all fools if you think you’ll ever work again after this embarrassment! As far as I’m concerned you’re all complicit!”

Before Solas can bring himself to speak, the man notices them—or, perhaps more accurately, he notices the massive Qunari towering over their shoulders.

“And who the hell are you?” he snaps, casting a disdainful glance over them.

“We’re with the Inquisition,” Bull says, his voice deceptively measured and calm. “Mind explaining what the fuck happened here?”

The man gestures over his shoulder at the sparking tent. “I should think that obvious! There’s a demon laying waste to my circus!”

“You should start with how a _demon_ got into your circus in the first place,” Dorian quips. “Did it apply as a contortionist, perhaps?”

The man bristles. “I’ll have you know I went through all the proper channels for a chantry sanctioned mage,” he snaps. “Went through all the paperwork, paid all the exorbitant fees, put up with Templar inspections—for all the good they did me! That minute I ask him to provide me with a demon bigger than a _cat_ the man folds under the pressure!”

“Right,” Bull says. “Can we—speak to this mage? Maybe he could help us?”

“If you want to talk to his electrocuted _corpse_ , be my guest. You might have to search a while, the monster ripped it to pieces and _laughed_ while it set about destroying my circus!”

Solas’s nails dig into his palms. “Shut. _Up._ ”

The man whips his gaze back to Solas and stares at him, incredulously, and is so shocked that for a moment he actually does.

Varric says, “Solas, any sign of your friend? We might not have long before that demon blows this place for good. With any luck it’ll take this asshole with it.”

“And just who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who I am?”

“At a guess?” Solas straightens, bringing his full height to bear on the man before him. “The man who tore my friend from its home and bound it to a form of terror beyond imagining—that in doing so you ruined your own livelihood is of no _consequence_ to me, only some small measure of justice served too late.”

“What?” Bull asks.

“Oh, for—” Dorian lets out a series of curses Solas doesn’t understand. “Aevalle, you failed to mention that his friend was a gigantic _pride demon_.”

“A spirit of Wisdom,” Solas snarls, “that you have corrupted with your greed.”

He is about to round on the ringleader, when he catches the movement of Aevalle’s hands signing out of the corner of his eye. He misses what she signs, but not Dorian’s strangled noise of protest in response.

“Help it? I don’t—I don’t know _how_ , Aevalle.”

_Dorian!_ she signs, frantic.

Dorian exhales, sharply. He looks between her and Solas for a moment, before saying, “If the mage who summoned it is dead and it’s still… _trapped_ here, then the mage must have used a vessel to bind it.”

“Then we destroy the vessel,” Solas says. “No vessel to bind it, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

“Are you insane?” the ringleader steps forward, trying to intimidate Solas into backing down. Solas only has to stand a little taller, lean a little bit forward, and the man immediately steps back. “The only reason that demon hasn’t killed us all is because it’s bound to the inside of that tent—”  

“ _Please don’t see me_ ,” Cole whimpers. “ _It’s so heavy_. Slipped under the back when no one was looking, just wanted to see the circus. But there’s so much smoke, and we can’t find the way…”

Solas listens, and—there is screaming coming from inside the big top. He looks again, and a flash of blue lighting within the tent illuminates smaller figures, some in movement, some hiding.

“Shit,” Varric says, “there’s still people in there.”

“I won’t be held responsible!” the ringleader protests. “I followed all—”

Aevalle punches the man right in the jaw with enough force to send him sprawling. She doesn’t even pause to watch him hit the ground—only turns around and starts signing, deliberately ignoring his stammering at her back.

_We need to get to help those people and find that vessel._

“About time,” Bull says, drawing his sword and his pistol.

“A moment,” Dorian says, just before everyone springs to action. “I doubt the vessel is in the tent, or on the mage’s body, or the—or it would have already been destroyed.”

Varric curses. “Of _course_ it’s not easy. Then where the hell is it?”

“With his belongings, presumably. Any mage could detect its presence, if close enough.”

“There.” Bull points behind the big top, where a number of smaller, rather ramshackle tents and wagons are clustered together. “That looks like _employee housing_ , don’t you think?”

Aevalle starts signing, directing their attention back to her. _Dorian, you take Varric and find that vessel. Once you do, destroy it._

Dorian glances once at Solas. He looks as if he is about to ask Aevalle if she’s certain, but one more look at her expression seems to change his mind. “Try not to get killed by a demon,” is what he says instead. “I hear it’s unpleasant.”

_Hurry_ , she signs, before taking off for the big top at a run.

“Boss,” Bull calls, even as he falls into step behind her. “What the hell are we gonna do about the demon?”

“We are going to _help_ it,” Solas answers back, in pace with Aevalle.

“And the other people inside,” Cole supplies.

“Yeah. And if the demon doesn’t _want_ us to help…?”

Aevalle cannot answer until they stop, some number of paces away from the entrance flap to the tent. There is lightning sparking inside, and with every crackle Solas can make out some new, more horrifying part of the Pride demon’s outline—its jagged dorsal fins, the long claws on each arm, the sharp spines humming with energy all along its shoulders.

_Once Dorian and Varric destroy the vessel, it will be fine,_ she signs. _We’re going to go in quiet, and get those people out of there before they get hurt._

“Hurt worse,” Bull grumbles. But he puts away his saber and his pistol after Aevalle gives him a pointed look. “Alright, no hurting the demon. But I don’t think it’s going to just let us walk in there and start escorting people out.”

_Leave that to me,_ she signs, before reaching for the spear at her back.

She slips through the tent flap, and one by one they follow her.

There are the crackle of spells for stability that hiss across Solas’s skin as they enter the tent—so strained that there’s a hum in the air as they struggle to keep the tent from catching flame or collapsing. Unfortunately there seems to have been no such precautions taken for the seating; the stands have all collapsed, rows of tiered benches crushed under the assault of a great fist or set aflame by magic. The carcass of some great animal Solas has seen only in dreams lies directly before them, blocking them from being seen by the monster that was once his friend.

Bull looks at the corpse of the animal with an expression that is mixed with pity and fear. _That’s from Par Vollen,_ he signs, glancing towards the center of the ring. _I’ve seen them trample people to death when spooked. If it could kill one of those…_

There is the sudden thunder of large, large footsteps approaching, and Solas glances up to see great, flaring fins with pointed spines, each crackling with bright blue lightning.

_Down_ , he signs, and everyone ducks, shifting as close as they can to the dead animal. Aevalle tucks herself neatly into the crook of its great leg, impossibly small next to its flat foot and large, widelarge nails.

They wait, no one moving a muscle, until they hear the steps of the Pride demon stalking to the other side of the ring.

Cole runs a hand over its grey, wrinkled skin, then plays with the tassles of the brightly coloured outfit the animal was wearing at the time of its death. “They made her stand on a ball, and used barbs and whips,” he whispers. “Lightning and a low, low laugh—this end was quick. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

_Focus, Cole,_ Aevalle signs, once she has set aside her spear. _People need our help. Where are they?_

He tilts his head, clearly thinking. Then he raises an arm and points, without looking, somewhere to their left.

“This way,” Cole whispers, before slipping away.

Aevalle gestures for Bull to follow next—and he hesitates a moment, glancing up as if he can peer over the animal’s carcass and see the demon lurking beyond. He lets out a frustrated breath through his nose, but turns and follows Cole without any further comment.

_We need to help Wisdom_ , Solas signs, urgently, once Bull’s back is turned.

_We will,_ Aevalle replies—the hard, determined look she’d given Bull softening as she looks up at Solas.

They hear a low growl, and the thunder of footsteps approaching them. Aevalle grabs Solas by the shirt and pulls him close with a strength that surprises him a little. He plants his hands on the flesh of the animal on either side of her, and cranes his head up—though all he can see is grey flesh, and failing wards sparking across the top of the tent.

When Pride stalks away, Solas realises that he is pressed impossibly close to Aevalle—her hand still clutching his vest, pinned between them. Her breath ghosting on his jaw, her eyelashes brushing against his skin, and her heart hammering against his chest.

Her hand, he notices, is shaking.

He slowly pulls back, and she lets out a relieved breath as she lets go of his shirt.

_We have to wait for Dorian and Varric to find the vessel,_ she signs. _Until then… just trust me. Please._

She’s right. He knows it, but _still_ , he hesitates—looking up again, as if he might find some better plan, some glimpse of his friend left in the corruption of the Pride demon.

He knows, too, that spirits simply do not work that way.

He bites back a curse, takes Aevalle’s hand, and follows Bull.

They make their way, as quickly and quietly as they dare, through the shelter that has been provided by the collapse of the raised seating. He forces his gaze ahead, at the narrow path between the broken piles of wood and the sturdy canvas of the big top.

There is a fire burning inside, somewhere—he can’t see it, can scarcely glimpse any light from it, but there is the persistent smell of smoke, the taste of it clinging to his mouth, the feeling of it in his throat. Over that, a static in the air, the kind he felt once standing on an open plain, watching a storm roll in from the distance.

But the tremble of the broken slabs of wood around them is not from rolling black clouds on the horizon.

They catch up to Bull quickly, who is hampered by the breadth of his horns and his broad shoulders. Cole takes longer still to find—and every time they must pause as Bull contorts himself into progressively smaller and smaller spaces, Solas finds himself biting down on the urge to peer through the gaps in the planks of wood. As if in stalling, Dorian and Varric might succeed, and Solas will not have to look upon his friend in its state of torment.

When they find Cole, he is not alone.

There are two children, staring out of a cage of broken planks of wood and one body that Solas can see—trapped above them, pinned by heavy lumber, he sees only a back twisted at an impossible angle, and a string of fired clay beads that have been polished to imitate pearls.

Solas only sees them because of the shine of one child’s eyes in the low light—an elven boy who is wearing a fierce expression in a poor attempt to mask his terror. There is a dwarven girl next to him, a little further back, clutching what appears to be a rusty butterknife as she glances between Aevalle, Solas, and Bull uneasily.

Bull puts a finger to his lips, slowly.

They both look at Cole, as if asking a question, and the spirit nods slowly. He whispers something to them that Solas doesn’t hear, and then the girl gestures for them to come closer.

Aevalle is the only one small enough to climb into their unstable-looking shelter—her leather-bound feet stick out, and she is completely still for a few moments before she slips back out, her expression drawn and worried.

_There’s one more,_ she signs. _A vashoth girl. I think her leg’s broken, but worse, she’s holding up this whole thing with her back—if we move her, it’s all coming down._

_That won’t be quiet,_ Bull signs back. He looks at the structure above them, where even now Solas can hear the whole thing creak and moan as pieces resettle—and underneath that, laboured breathing of someone young and exhausted.

_I can hold it with magic,_ Solas tells them, _but it might draw the attention of the demon._

“I can hide us,” Cole whispers, “if we’re very quiet. But… not for long.”

_And I can carry her,_ Bull assures them, with a gentle smile at Cole. _We can cut the tent, get out right here, before that thing gets us. Quick and easy._

Solas holds up a hand—partially to ask them to pause, and also to get a better feel for the wards woven into the tent’s material. He closes his eyes, feeling spells and runes trembling in the air around him.

_The wards built into the tent are already at their limit_ , Solas signs. _If we damage the tent, there will be nothing keeping the Pride demon to this place—or the whole thing from coming crashing down on us before we can make our escape._

Bull makes a face, opens his mouth, and closes it. Then he signs a few vulgarities Aevalle has taught them, but doesn’t look satisfied with their effect.

_We need a distraction,_ he signs, finally. _Can you make a fireworks show on the other side of the tent or something? Maybe an… illusion of that idiot ringmaster so the demon can strangle him. That would be funny._

Solas shakes his head, then turns to Aevalle—who is looking the other way, at a gap in the planks of wood that is just big enough for her to squeeze through.

He has been around her long enough to know precisely what stupid plan she has just come up with. He moves to grab her wrist, but she slips away the moment his fingers brush her skin.

She slips in between the gaps before either Bull or Solas can stop her—and she pauses, turns back to look at them just out of reach, with a determined expression.

Out of the corner of his eye, Solas can see Bull signing more obscenities, with a bit more frustration this time.

_I won’t hurt it,_ she signs, looking directly at Solas. _I promise. Get those kids safe._

_Wait,_ he signs, but she has already turned—slipping her spear from her back in the same motion.

He watches as she slips out of hiding, and into a ring of sand and blood. There is only silence for a moment, a low rumble from the monster his friend has become as it notices her.

Aevalle spins her spear in one hand—effortless, the lines of her body as she simply shifts her weight full of grace and poise.

Then she moves out of sight, darting away from danger, as the thundering steps of what was once Wisdom pursues her.

He only catches a glimpse of it as it passes the gap, before he is forced to duck away and hide. Wide fins snapping open, lightning crackling along them, a twisted body that moves with a supernatural speed, belying its great bulk.

_Quickly_ , Solas signs to Bull as he tears himself away, readying the spell.

Bull reaches in, turning sideways to accommodate his horns—he only half fits in, and Solas can see all his muscles straining as he reaches with one arm for the girl trapped within. When he has her, he gives a thumbs up with his other hand.

Solas ignores the snarling of the demon in the ring, the horrible laughter that is loud and low enough to make bones rattle—it has not caught her yet, _it has not caught her yet_ —and he reaches inside, for the reservoir within.

It rushes forward, like a tide held at bay. Though he portions it, rations it, what he keeps back rails against his will, makes his skin tingle even as his hands move and he weaves power through the failing structure above them. Gentle currents move through the air, solidifying like ice as his fingers splay, and he focuses on the task at hand.

In one smooth motion, Bull yanks the girl out from under her wooden sanctuary. To her credit, she only gasps in pain—though she can’t be any older than sixteen—and she curls inwards as Bull lifts her in his arms.

The other children are close behind, looking only slightly less terrified.

_Go,_ Solas mouths, as he holds the spell.

Bull and Cole move as quickly as they can, with Solas following slowly behind. Now he peers through the collapsed scaffolding every chance he gets—staring wide-eyed into the dust rising in the ring beyond, looking for any glimpse of Aevalle in the darkness beyond. All over there is the crackle of lightning, the movement of a great and horrifying _thing_ that looks as if it was dragged from some unspeakable depth. He catches fleeting shadows of large, sharp-spined fins, horns that reach and curl, unnatural and uneven spines that protrude from every hard line of its twisted body.

Over and over, it laughs as it attacks, and growls in frustration as its quarry escapes its grasp.

Once they are far enough away, Solas lets the section he is holding up collapse. It nearly comes down on them still—Bull bites back a curse as a large plank nearly lands directly on his head—but it has the effect of giving the demon pause, and he hopes it gives Aevalle a moment’s reprieve.

Bull looks back long enough to stare at him, wide eyed and furious, as the planks above them shift, but ultimately hold.

Solas only motions him forward, and Bull obeys with a frustrated huff of breath.

Eventually, _finally_ , they reach the entrance. Bull runs through without hesitating, the children with him. Solas, however, pauses.

At his back is the large animal carcass—and just beyond that Aevalle, fighting what remains of Wisdom.

“Tough talk, stand tall _._ ” Cole is at Solas’s side, whispering so softly Solas can barely hear him over the sound of combat in the ring. “Though the teaching takes a toll, and she _trembles_.”

Solas frowns in confusion—not quite understanding Cole, for half a heartbeat.

But then he remembers Hawen’s words—a few _days’_ rest.

He curses—louder than he means to, a vulgar sign half-formed by his hands as he does. And then he turns on his heel.

“Help anyone else you can find,” Solas tells Cole—and then he is climbing the dead animal, grasping its garish outfit by the fistful and pulling himself up.

Once he stands atop the creature’s side, however, what he sees gives him pause.

“No,” he says, softly—even though he _knew_ , he _knew_ and still, seeing it before him…

The Pride demon towers in the centre of the ring—and in the dark, currents of electricity run up its body, illuminating in flashes its too-large grin with too many teeth, like and unlike a shark in too many ways, its broad shoulders littered with spines with no order or reason, its fins that stretch out, so it looks even bigger than its already massive frame.

Aevalle is standing on the balls of her feet, waiting for the demon to move first—and now that he is looking for it, he can see that the line of her shoulders is drooping, somewhat, with exhaustion. That her legs tremble as she holds her position, _waiting_ , and her chest is heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.

She is exhausted. She is weak, and overtaxed, and without even considering it _he_ brought her here—

Pride moves, then—lightning crackles from its fins to its hand, and it raises one arm with a speed that is shocking for its size. A whip shoots forth from its hand, darting to Aevalle as if she is a single mast at sea in a storm.

She does not quite move fast enough—but the attack crashes into a barrier, hastily raised, and disperses across it harmlessly.

The demon turns with a snarl, narrow eyes locking on Solas where he stands, hand thrown in Aevalle’s direction, fingers splayed wide.

He looks only at the demon, however—watching as its lips curl and it starts to laugh, low and rumbling, at how small he appears atop the creature’s corpse.

Then its spines begin to crackle with energy, and Solas calls on the well of power buried within.

A whip of energy hits the spot where he stood, but Solas is no longer there. With a surge of energy, he lets the momentum of power rushing through him carry him, frost dusting in the air where he passes through with unnatural speed.

He makes an attempt to freeze the demon’s feet in place—but it only snarls, breaks free, and advances on Solas with a raised fist.

Aevalle, unseen behind its left shoulder, darts in and thrusts the point of her spear into the demon’s knee.

The demon screams—and the sound makes Solas’s heart leap in his chest—but it becomes clear that the sound is more of surprise than pain. Her attack did little more than chip off a piece of the creature’s thick, scaled armor, and deflect its attention so Solas can slip out of its reach, unharmed.

As Aevalle darts out of the way, her steps falter in the uneven, bloodied earth at their feet—but the demon’s fist comes down on a barrier, the impact sending ripples across its surface, but leaving Aevalle unharmed.

When the Pride demon moves to strike her again, Solas gathers magic in his palm—and the air begins to curl in around the demon, closer and closer, pressing in with all the weight and force of the water in the ocean’s depths, as he attempts to constrict its movement and give Aevalle more time to get away.

Solas can feel the muscles in his arms straining as his mana flairs, as the demon snarls, even as it begins to curl in around itself, against its will. “Run!”

She only meets his gaze and shakes her head.

“Aevalle!” he calls again, frustrated—but then the demon laughs, low in its throat, and with a surge of power that bursts from all the spines along its back, it uncurls, throwing out its arms and breaking Solas’s hold.

The spell bursts outward—a wall of force that hits Solas and sends him tumbling through the air as if it were a wave. His back collides with something wooden and hard, and for a moment he is too stunned to move—stars swim in his vision, and his hands move to defend himself against a threat he is certain is barrelling towards him.

It does not come—instead, as Solas blinks to clear his vision, and over the high-pitched whine his ears pick up the sound of cracking wood, the grind of steel, and—far more alarming—the rush of flame.

That whine is not his ears ringing, he realises belatedly—it is the sound and sensation of too many magical wards failing, all at once.

He looks up just in time to make out the flare of magic at the top of the tent, the pale light of the last few wards bursting, some lines of lightning dying out and the canvas far above him finally catching flame.

Across the ring, Aevalle is scrambling to her feet, reaching for her spear—and the demon is stalking toward Solas, its unnatural teeth bared in a bizarre grin, electricity sparking in its spined fins once again, moving down to its hands as it walks with heavy steps, its gaze completely on Solas.

He readies a barrier, waiting as it raises its arms—

Just before it can unleash the spell, Aevalle leaps on its back, driving her spear between its shoulder blades and yanking down, _hard_.

“No!” Solas cries, just as the demon reels back, snarling—its intended attack redirected toward the top of the tent.

Electricity blasts through the broken seating at Solas’s back, sending pieces of wood and metal flying—Solas is forced to raise a barrier around himself, quickly, to keep from becoming crushed alive, as seating and supports for the tent alike begin to come down on his head, much of it aflame.

And he can only watch in horror as the demon throws Aevalle off its back, lightning coursing from its body as it whirls, snarling in rage—

—and, as the tent collapses atop them a different kind of glow altogether beginning to spread across its body.

Before Solas can even begin to process the small thread of hope that appears at the sight of it, they are blocked from view by burning canvas, wood, and smoke.

Just as the flames begin to lick at the wood closest to Solas—just as the weight of all causes his barrier to strain, and bend—a soft, pale blue light begins to seep through the cracks, like the soft trickle of water.

He watches as it floods forward, pouring through every small gap, building up until it has gathered enough strength to wash over his barrier like a wave—caressing it, enforcing it, extinguishing flame and washing away the debris threatening to smother him, until above him is only a clear, early evening sky, smoke being cleared by a gentle breeze.

And where Aevalle and the demon fell, together, now Aevalle stands, surrounded by Wisdom.

He has not seen his friend outside dreams in so long, that the sight of it catches his breath now. It takes, as it has so often done in the past, the shape of an orca, blue and white, its body moving through the air, almost as if swimming, in a slow, gentle circle around Aevalle, the glow of its magic a barrier around them both as much as it is a balm to the battlefield around them.

Just as Solas allows himself to feel relief, however, he sees the strength of Wisdom’s magic begin to wane—he sees its form tremble, and the waves of its power that have calmed the flames around them begins to recede back into itself.

“No,” he breathes, softly.

Aevalle reaches up, her expression of wonder falling, and she presses a palm to Wisdom’s side. The spirit begins to circle downward, and Aevalle moves with it—guiding it gently to the ground with her hands, kneeling with it as it settles on the sand with a great, trembling sigh.

When Solas approaches, Aevalle is still touching Wisdom’s side—moving her hands in soothing motions, looking it over for injuries as he suspects she has done for many a halla in the past.

_Solas_ , she signs, when she notices him. _Something’s wrong—how can we help it?_

He does not respond. He only kneels by his friend’s side, and very gently presses a hand to the space between its eyes.

Wisdom sighs. Its eyes flutter, and the wells of power behind it dim, in response to his touch.

“ _Lethallin,_ ” he says, gently. “ _Ir abelas.”_

“ _Tel’abelas,_ ” Wisdom murmurs in reply, its voice humming with undertones just below normal hearing. “ _Enasal. Ir tel’him._ ”

Aevalle inhales sharply.

“ _Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghilana mir din’an._ ”

It’s such a small thing—but Solas finds himself staring at Aevalle’s hands on Wisdom’s form. Her fingers curling, to hide their trembling.

He closes his eyes for a moment—and with a breath, composes himself for what must be done.

“ _Ma nuvenin,_ ” he whispers.

He wishes it were not such a simple thing—that this required some struggle, or some effort. But Wisdom’s form is barely holding together as it is—all he has to do is raise his hands, and remind his friend of the ocean, and its pull.

Wisdom sighs again, as its form begins to fall apart—as it slips away into tiny, trembling motes of light, guided out to sea by the same gentle breeze that is clearing away the smoke and ashes on the air. He watches them go awhile, his hands falling into his lap—watches what is left of his friend dissipate, and everything it might have shared with an uncaring world vanish with it.

“ _Dareth shiral,_ ” he says, when he can no longer see the light on the breeze.

He remains there a moment—Aevalle kneeling before him, her hands making fists in her lap. Eventually, she signs, slowly, _It was right. You did help._

He looks away from her again—in the direction of the ocean, blocked from his view entirely by hills, buildings, and the remains of the tent. To no one in particular, he says, “Now I must endure.”

They sit a while longer there—Solas, looking toward the water, feeling Aevalle’s gaze on him. After a time she moves, presumably to comfort him, when the sound of approaching footsteps directs his gaze away.

It’s the ringmaster, picking his way through the remains of the tent with a disgusted look. “Look at this mess!” he bemoans, throwing his hands up in the air. He sees Solas and Aevalle, finally, and gestures dramatically at the wreckage surrounding them. “You could have at least _tried_ to kill the demon without destroying my property, couldn’t you? How am I supposed to carry on with this mess?”

“How indeed,” Solas says slowly, rising to his feet.

The bite in his words is lost in the ringmaster as Solas approaches him. “You think this is amusing?” He picks up a piece of canvas, hopelessly burnt, and attempts to gesture with it furiously as it crumbles into ash between his fingers. “Do you know what this costs to replace? How much I have to pay for the enchanting? Not even that, just for the proper permissions to _have_ it enchanted?”

“You have no idea the scope of what you have ruined today,” Solas snaps, “in your _arrogance_ , in your _greed_. How many spirits have you twisted to _amaze_ crowds, to frighten children? I can name a hundred that would have done so only if asked!”

“Of what use is that to me with my circus in ruins? Are you telling me to start over from—from _this_? Are you mad!”

Solas feels his voice drop low, and dark. “No,” he says, as he takes one final step closer. “I have no intentions of letting you do this again.”

There is only time for a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes—a heartbeat’s length, for his expression to flick from confusion to understanding, and then the most primal urge of them all. It’s not a fitting punishment, Solas thinks—but Wisdom would not wish for him to be cruel.

The man who owned the circus that killed his friend dies impaled on a spear of ice—quickly, quietly, and with very little mess.

When he turns, Aevalle is watching him—unflinching, unjudging. There is a sorrow in her eyes that he has seen before, and while he can guess her thoughts in this moment…

No. He cannot bear her comfort now.

“I… need to think,” he says as she stands. “I will… I will find my own way back to Seahold.”

If she tries to stop him as he walks away, he does not turn to witness it. He can feel her gaze on his back as he goes, certainly for longer than would be possible. Feels it on his shoulders as he walks through the town, up the winding paths away from the sea, and inland.

Or perhaps it is just the pull of the ocean—an unwelcome, yet persistent companion for his grief.

 

It takes all night to find all the bodies.

It’s tiring work, lit by Dorian’s magelight, and Varric complains the whole time, but no matter how many times she tells him that he can go rest if he wants, he keeps it up. Moving debris and lining up bodies alongside her.

When dawn comes, they count them—sixteen. Took most of that time just to _find_ them, under the weight of everything they were crushed under. The ringmaster lies with them, his expression frozen into a kind of stupefied terror.

Aevalle keeps staring down at it, at them. All lined up, until Cole covers them one by one with whatever they can find. There’s a woman wearing a black necklace and a white dress, and for some reason, in the pre-dawn light, all she can see is Deshanna, on that table…

The ringmaster’s jacket is the same colour of that boy’s scales. The one she saved. The one they cut open…

She walks away without telling anyone where she’s going. Thankfully, no one follows her.

There is a bit of a cliff, just beyond the path, and it looks out over the town and the ocean. She stands at the edge for a while, watching the light of the sun as it rises slowly illuminate the town. She watches as people gather in the streets, wondering how many of them have been waiting all night to see if their loved ones are coming home.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the scuff of footsteps on the path behind her—one set of boots, two bare or in footwraps.

“Oh,” comes a soft female voice. “I wonder what happened here.”

The next is female as well—rougher though, with a sarcastic edge that sounds more like bitterness than humour. “Well whatever it was, they can’t pin this one on me. Right?”

The third is male, low and suspicious. “ _Hawke_ ,” he says, urgently.

Aevalle turns around, and is greeted by the sight of a human flanked on either side by an elf. The first is Dalish, with dark hair and Dirthamen’s vallaslin, and the other elf gives her some pause—she thinks at first he bears the blood writing as well, eerily pale against his skin, but she doesn’t recognise the style. He has a sword on his back, and she notices his hand is reaching for it, eyeing the spear on hers.

“Relax, Fenris,” the human says. She steps forward, throwing back her hood to reveal a pleasant, if crooked smile, bright grey eyes, and a smudged streak of red paint across her nose. “Hey there,” she says. “Any idea what happened here?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... yeah. Last update was February? Sorry about that.
> 
> Short version: I left my old job and got a new one. I've been changing menus, adjusting to a new schedule, and other very busy life events and all, and also Mass Effect and Horizon: Zero Dawn happened. So there's that! 
> 
> In the space between updates, I've commissioned two pieces of Aevalle: the first by [selenelavellan](https://selenelavellan.tumblr.com/)/[my-beautiful-thief](http://my-beautiful-thief.tumblr.com/) of [mermaid Aevalle](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/post/159644537591/comission-of-mermaid-aevalle-a-la-black-coral-by), who later drew [her character Selene](https://selenelavellan.tumblr.com/post/160922221839/eyy-so-i-guess-mermay-is-a-thing-apparently) in a BC-esque short I wrote for her a while back, and the second from [lillotte17](http://lillotte17.tumblr.com/) is the scene where [Aevalle plays the fiddle in the town square!](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/post/160427294896/in-the-town-square-there-is-quite-a-gathering-of) So go ahead and check those out, if you haven't already.


	19. Grief

There are two elves sitting on a fence next to the road, looking out over Crestwood Bay.

This would not normally give either of the Grey Wardens pause; the spot would, under normal circumstances, offer a pretty view over the sparkling water of the bay and the sprawling floodwall at its mouth, with a gentle sea breeze to keep them from growing too warm under the summer sun.

It is, however, the middle of the Maker-forsaken night, with rain falling like buckets from the sky, and, perhaps most importantly, there are _thrice-damned undead_ crawling out of the water.

Not, unfortunately, Darkspawn, or they’d be duty-bound to do something about it, orders be damned.

As they draw closer, however, Emric can make out scattered bones on the path, seaweed tangled in some of them. And then he sees the spear resting on the fence beside the young lady—dressed in some appallingly waterlogged but mundane clothing, and those funny footwraps that elves sometimes prefer to boots—and that the young man is trying to keep a broadsword dry under the heavy cloak he’s got the good sense to wear.

Emric waves to the pair as he and his partner draw near, though he can nearly _feel_ the man beside him rolling his eyes in frustration as he does.

“Hello!” he calls, when he is certain they are close enough to be heard above the awful wind.

He is close enough now to see the dark tattoos on the young woman’s face—Dalish then, he thinks, with no more than a quick glance at the man beside her to confirm he has those markings, too. A light colour, but that’s not all that uncommon.

The woman smiles in greeting, but the man only scowls at them, so Emric directs his question to her.

“Miss,” he says, “I’m afraid it’s not safe out here for travellers. There’s a village up the hill, and they can provide you with shelter.”

“We can handle ourselves,” the man says, his accent curiously Tevene for a man with Dalish tattoos, “though I thank you for the warning. I wonder at the quality of such shelter if neither of you will take advantage of it for yourselves.”

Emric tries to smile, but his cheeks are so cold it’s little better than a grimace. “Orders, I’m afraid. We’re to book passage West, once our business is concluded here. No delays.”

The woman kicks something—and Emren looks down to see it’s a skull, the front smashed open.

When he looks back up at her, she’s tilting her head, as if asking him a question. Her pupils are eerily green in what little light his lantern offers him.

“Does your business perhaps include these things rising from the water?” the man asks. “We’ve fought off our fair share, but they keep coming.”

Emren’s partner—possibly exhausted from carrying the extra weight of the water in his clothes—interrupts then. “We are looking for a rogue Warden, goes by the name of Stroud. Orlesian. Ridiculous moustache, impossible to track down. Either of you seen him?”

The young woman shakes her head, and her friend’s brow rises. “Curious,” he says. “How, precisely, does a Grey Warden go rogue?”

“Can’t say,” Emren answers, with a scowl directed at his partner. “But Warden-Commander Clarel has ordered his capture. If you hear anything of him, it would be appreciated if you could send word to the Wardens at Adamant Fortress.”

“Certainly,” he replies. “Thank you for the warning—perhaps we will head to this village then, if there are only more undead on the road ahead.”

Emric and his partner leave the two to their travels, though the elves do not get up and leave when the Wardens do. Before the road curves away, Emric happens to turn and glance back.

They are still there—two pairs of eyes gleaming like wild animals in the dead of night.

Though there are enough elves in the Grey Wardens for it to be a familiar sight, it still makes him shudder as he turns away.

 

“Adamant, then?” Hawke wonders as she comes out of the bushes behind Fenris, swinging her legs over the fence to perch beside him.

Varric is close behind her, but he simply leans on the fence between the two elves, glancing up at Aevalle. She seems to be focused on the large body of water that spits out walking skeletons every twenty minutes or so, which Varric supposes is fair. “I’ve heard of it,” he says, “but I don’t have a clue where it is.”

Stroud appears shortly after, pulling wet leaves from his apparently _infamous_ moustache. “It rests on an island that rises out of the Abyssal Sea,” he informs them, “formed from a battle on a peninsula during the first Blight. It is at least two weeks’ journey from any settlement worth speaking of, due to the constant storms that plague the region.”

Varric whistles. “Curly’s not going to like that.”

“We can cut that time at _least_ in half with the Keeper,” Bull interrupts, standing up where he had been couching before. Half a bush is stuck to one of his horns, its roots and mud dangling in the air, but he either doesn’t notice or just pretends not to.

Dorian finally emerges from the bushes, not a trace of leaf or twig on his person, to lean on the fence at Aevalle’s other side. “And then we would have no backup from the Inquisition’s formidable navy in case something were to go horribly wrong.”

“I’m not saying we take the whole thing by force,” Bull amends. “Just a quick recon mission—sneak in, confirm that Corypheus is behind the weird Calling, sneak out. No one has to even know we’re there.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely plan.” Merrill climbs up onto the fence beside Varric, casting a spell over their heads to keep the rain off. “It sounds much better than barging our way in through the front door and almost dying, like we usually do.”

Hawke bristles. “Well we can’t all have weird sentient submersible boats, now can we?”

Stroud gives Hawke an alarmed look. “What?”

“And who even _says_ they have a side door,” Hawke continues, “huh?”

Stroud doesn’t look much like he understands, but he says, “The fortress rests at the top of the island’s sheer cliffs, and there is only one approach leading up from the sea.”

“See?” Hawke crosses her arms over her chest. “Your plan stinks. I vote we break it down.”

Aevalle is still staring off into space, so Varric gives her a bit of a nudge.

She startles, then looks down at him.

“You still with us, Drifter?”

She attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks back out to the bay briefly, before turning back to Varric and signing, _Something’s not right here._

“No shit,” he replies, deadpan. “And here I thought the skeletons were a tourist attraction.”

“Oh?” Merrill looks out to the water. “Is she talking about the bay?”

“Yeah, she’s had the brilliant idea that something fishy might be going on here.”

Someone groans. Hawke snorts.

She signs again, and Varric nearly rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I’ll clarify—she says the water feels _wrong_. Whatever that’s supposed to mean, I’m not entirely sure.”

Merrill only tilts her head curiously. “She’s right. I’ve been thinking the same thing ever since we got here—it feels sick, doesn’t it?”

“Merrill,” Hawke pipes up. “You are near and dear to my heart, and I will kill anyone who looks at you sideways—but it’s a giant lake. How can it be _sick_?”

“It’s not a lake,” Fenris interrupts, pointing to the long wall along the coastline that they can barely make out through the pouring rain. “I believe that is a floodwall, meant to protect this area from flooding during storm season.”

“And it’s doing a _great_ job,” Hawke says. “Except for the giant saltwater lake it’s obviously let in.”

Aevalle shifts uncomfortably on the fence, still looking at the water with no small amount of concern on her features. _I’ve felt this before_ , she signs, and Varric dutifully interprets.

“Where?”

Her lips twist, and she takes quite a while to respond. But she does, eventually, sign, _This old ruin, where a piece of the sea was trapped, separated from the deep, and grew stagnant._

“Did skeletons pop out of it?” Bull wonders.

_No_. She looks very distant as she signs, _But something very wrong lived there._

Dorian seems to know what she’s talking about, and reaches to touch her shoulder with a sympathetic wince. Varric glances behind him at Cole, who is still standing in the bushes, but the kid doesn’t give him a hint.

“I’ve felt this before, too,” Merrill says, a note of longing in her voice. “It’s very rare, but… sometimes bits of the sea get trapped by the land, and whatever else was stuck with it gets… well, _strange_.”

_Dangerous_ , Aevalle corrects.

“Yes,” Merrill agrees. “So it’s odd, then, that they keep the flood gate closed, even though they could have drained it at any time…”

“It became damaged during the Blight,” Stroud informs them, back straight. “It flooded out the old town of Crestwood. Presumably, since the damage is constantly underwater, no one has had the ability to fix it.”

After a moment’s consideration, Aevalle hops off the fence, and starts stripping off her coat.

“Uh, Drifter,” Varric says, “little cold for a swim, maybe?”

She ignores him, throwing her rain-soaked jacket over the fence behind her. Then off comes her shirt—and, for _once_ , she’s got some sort of breastband on underneath that looks like it’s made out of sealskin. Varric finds himself hoping that it’s lined with something soft.

“You are _not_ swimming alone in undead-infested waters,” Dorian begins to argue.

Aevalle ignores him, undoing her belt and stepping out of her trousers. She’s wearing matching smalls as well, and she doesn’t bother taking off her footwraps.

“I hardly think she needs to go _alone_ ,” Merrill amends, resting her own spear on the fence so she can take her jacket off.

Varric stares up at her, aghast. “Daisy,” he says. “Don’t tell me…?”

She blinks down at him for a moment, curious. And then she seems to catch on, and laughs.

“Oh,” she says, “Oh _Varric_.”

“If you’ve been hiding fins on me all these years, I swear I will—”

“No!” she waves her hands in the air. “No! I just know a little air bubble spell! It’s one of the first spells I ever learned! In case someone ever needed help underwater. Really!”

As Varric squints suspiciously up at her, Fenris sighs.

“Stop shaking my arm, Hawke.”

The sound of wet leather creaking indicates that she has not, in fact, stopped shaking Fenris’s arm. “This is _it_ ,” she hisses.

Fenris only sighs again.

“In case no one has noticed,” Varric says, as loud as he can, “there’s currently a _ridiculous storm_ blowing through.”

Merrill, stripped down to leathers a little similar to the ones Aevalle is wearing, ignores him, speaking to Aevalle instead. “Oh, before we go down—this,” she says, awkwardly signing, “is everything’s alright, yes? And this is up—and this is down?”

Aevalle impatiently nods to every gesture Merrill makes, walking backwards into the water.

“Look where you’re going for a change!” Dorian shouts, just as Aevalle finally turns and dives into the water.

Merrill follows a moment after—and as they all watch, a bolt of lightning bursts across the sky, catching the brilliant blue of Aevalle’s scales as she leaps once from the water, fully transformed, fins flaring in the air before she dives back under again.

“Subtle as always,” Dorian complains.

“Unbelievable,” Stroud says, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“Unbelievable,” Hawke grumbles, and Varric glances over just in time to see her slap a coin into Fenris’ waiting palm. Fenris has the good grace to only look a _little_ smug about it.

“Did you make a bet with Fenris over whether or not I was just pulling your leg?”

“I _absolutely_ made a bet with Fenris over whether or not you were pulling my leg.”

“You came _out of hiding_ because you thought I was pulling your leg?!”

“And?” Hawke asks, looking genuinely baffled that he’s even asking.

“How is this achieved?” Stroud wonders. “Some—some great feat of magic?”

Varric catches Fenris send a wary glance Dorian’s way. For his part, Dorian doesn’t seem to notice.

“Apparently it runs in the family,” Varric says, making a placating gesture and giving Fenris a significant _look_. “Only your standard weird ocean shit here, apparently. No magic required.”

Fenris rolls his eyes, but seems to let it go for the moment.

When Varric looks back over at Stroud, he sees Bull leaning over from behind him and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Also,” Bull adds, “something _not_ to go around telling everyone about. Yeah?”

Bull gives the Warden’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Stroud is still staring out at the water—but Varric can see him nod, very slowly.

“You know,” Hawke says. “I always thought Merrill was being _metaphorical_ when she talked about this shit. But I guess, in hindsight, that time she got really drunk and told us all a story about how what’s-his-face landed in a boat with fins sticking straight up in the air _probably_ should’ve tipped us off.”

“I thought she was so drunk she forgot the word for feet,” Varric admits, which makes Hawke laugh.

“A moment,” Stroud says, loudly enough that everyone turns to look at him. “Earlier, you said, _submersible_ vessel. Am I correct?”

“Glad to see you’re keeping up,” Varric says. “Yes, we have a ship that sinks. Filled with air so we don’t drown, which is reassuring. And then it goes wherever Drifter there tells it to, and we all pop out and give everyone on shore a pleasant, not at all freaky, surprise.”

“Which is _not_ a secret considering the entire city of Val Royeaux saw us do exactly that,” Bull adds.

Hawke laughs. “Bet that was a hell of an entrance.”

“Adamant once housed the Grey Warden’s gryphons,” Stroud says, “or at least most of them. To this day, the fortress rests on either side of a sheer chasm, where the gryphons roosted in caves carved out of the cliffs, all connected to the fortress above by tunnels that have fallen into disrepair.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian drawls. “And this is relevant because…?”

“Because,” Stroud says, “at the bottom of that chasm, enclosed on all sides, there is a massive reservoir of ocean water.”

No one says anything for a moment, as the realisation dawns on them, one by one. Hawke’s eyes light up. Just as she opens her mouth to speak, Cole, still standing in the bushes, says very softly, “A side door.”

 

When the sun rises, it does not sparkle on an inland sea.

Instead it shines down on ruined homes, on old bones that no longer rise or take up arms. Years of dirt and silt compacting as it dries out, and the corrupted seawater filters out into the bay.

Aevalle watches it as Bull guides the Mayor of Crestwood out of his home, his hands bound behind his back. She doesn’t look at him, even when Bull begins to walk the man down to the little town’s harbour, where the Keeper waits. She has the piece of black coral Hawen gave her in one hand and her knife in the other as she stares down at Old Crestwood, at sea-soaked timber and belongings scattered on the ground. Some of them catch the sunlight and glitter, though she knows some of it is the bodies of fish, not yet begun to rot.

She keeps turning the coral over and over in her hands. It’s too small, she thinks. Too small a thing, for all the death she’s seen.

_They were sick_ , the Mayor had said. _The Blight. Every one of them_.

It had not been in his defense. As he said it, he looked relieved more than anything.

She turns the coral again. Again. It’s not—it’s not—

She closes her eyes. Breathes in, and out.

The caves had just been full of skeletons. Full of them. They’re still down there—unburied. Unburned.

In the distance, the tide is receding. Pulling the tainted water with it, back to the deep.

She wonders what will happen to it out there. To all that pain and misery, trapped in one place until it rotted everything it touched, washed away by clear water, pulled past seafoam and wake and out to depths too vast for her to ever dream of swimming.

Deshanna used to say that the tide pulled heartache out to sea, and when it came in again brought hope in its place. Breathe in with the rush of the waves, to gather all your sorrow in your chest—and then breathe out, and let the ocean steal away your sorrows.

Where does it take it all, she wonders. And how much can it hold, before it too bursts.

Solas probably knows, wherever he is. Or, at least, he would have something comforting to say. A story that sounds like old words of wisdom, told a different way.

She wishes she could ask him.

“A word.”

She opens her eyes and turns her head. Fenris is standing off to her side, his arms crossed over his chest. Scowling slightly, but she thinks he always does that.

She raises a brow at him, tucking the coral back into her pocket and sheathing her knife. She gestures to the fence she’s sitting on, but he only approaches a few steps more, and does not sit down.

He seems to be studying her face.

“In his letter, Varric said you were a slave.”

A poor one, she thinks. And she had fought it and railed against it all the while—but he isn’t wrong. She was at the mercy of Felix and Dorian’s kindness long after they became her friends. So she nods, once, eyeing him warily.

He’s still looking at her very intently—his eyes narrow, and she thinks that he’s not finding what he’s looking for. So he holds out his arm, and rolls back his sleeve so she can see the markings there. White lines in his skin, raised slightly, that look _almost_ like vallaslin. Maybe if they didn’t have that odd, almost-shining quality to them.

As she watches, they begin to glow. Blue, and pale, their light catching shadows across his face like reflections off the ocean’s surface.

“My master gave me these,” he says, “and I used them to kill him.”

She watches the pattern of light moving across his face as his markings fade, and he lowers his arm once again.

“If your master followed you here, under the guise of friend,” he says, “I can do the same for you.”

It honestly takes her a minute to realise what he’s saying—and he watches her _very_ closely while she processes it, so he very likely sees the precise moment she realises it. She almost laughs, she’s so surprised—and more than a little touched, at the offer he’s making.

She shakes her head, unable to hide her smile.

Fenris frowns at her a little, shifting his weight. “It occurs to me that I should have brought Varric along,” he says.

She _does_ laugh at that. Silently, a hand covering her mouth out of habit more than anything.

When she looks back at Fenris, he is smiling too. “Hawke wants a drink before we leave,” he says. “You are welcome to join us—she wants to know why Varric is so fond of you.”

She nods to Fenris, and then gestures until he seems to gather that she’ll join him in a moment. She does not follow immediately. Instead, she looks back out to the bay—towards the old town before it, and birds flying through the open food gate in the distance.

She takes out the piece of black coral again, and studies it closely. There’s a bump on the bottom half—one irregularity on the otherwise smooth surface. She turns it over, looking at it from a different angle…

It looks a little like a dorsal fin. Like a halla, or a dolphin, or…

She uses her knife to score the coral, and then neatly break it in half.

It feels like an eternity since Aevalle last set foot in Seahold.

It’s only been two weeks. The longest she’s gone without walking the ramparts in the morning, or lounging on Solas’s couch in his study, or helping with the orphanage.

The change to the underground docks made in that time has been significant, however.

Lights have been brought down and placed throughout; powered by electricity, it seems, because she cannot make out even a trace of burning oil in the air. It is bright enough now that she can see the mosaics and murals clearly, though she can tell even at a glance that they have been damaged by time and the things that have lived down here, and she has to struggle to make out most of the shapes. As she climbs the stairs she _thinks_ there are soldiers in gleaming armour lining the walls, or perhaps just people in beautiful scales, though she can’t tell which. She spies a figure slipping by in the background, and though she can make out a mouth full of sharp, sharp teeth, the figure is depicted in such a way that she’s not certain if it’s meant to be a shark or a wolf.

Both, probably.

Almost all of the lichen has been cleared out, she realises as she steps onto the cliffs above the docks and her feet touch only uneven, worn stone. She finds instead worktables, cables for the lights, piles of equipment and tools that she _thinks_ are magical or alchemical, but she isn’t certain, and Cullen carrying an extremely heavy looking box while a dwarven woman directs him where to set it down.

“Oh,” she’s saying, “not there, there’s a drip coming from above and if the ceiling has any Stormheart in it, we might all explode and die.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Cullen grumbles, his limbs shaking with the weight of the box. Then he spots Aevalle standing at the stairs, and he straightens a little. “Captain Lavellan,” he says, “you’ve returned.”

She tries not to make a face at the word _Captain_ , but she’s not sure she succeeds.

“Good to see you’re well,” he continues, as he slowly toddles over to where the dwarf points next. “I trust your business in the Exalted Archipelago went smoothly?”

She can’t help but smile a little at the sight of him, essentially _waddling_ because the box is so heavy. She nods, her hands behind her back, and manages to keep herself from laughing until his back is turned.

Behind her, the others are coming up the stairs. She hears Hawke whistle, high and long, and then the Champion of Kirkwall comes to stand beside her and sling an arm over her shoulders. “Damn,” she says, craning her neck to look up at the ceiling, which is still in shadow in spite of all the lights added on the ground. “I mean, I prefer things like _windows_ and _not underground_ , but for a place to park a boat it’s pretty nice.”

Cullen, half-bent over the box as he sets it on the ground, freezes in place.

“You dock a boat, Hawke,” Fenris corrects her, as Aevalle watches Cullen finish putting the box down, and then slowly stand up and turn around, “not _park_ it.”

“Nuance. Oh, hey, look who it is. Cullen! Remember me?”

Cullen just stares at Hawke for a moment, looking more than a little shell-shocked. “Yes, Hawke,” he says, “I remember you.”

“Oh, the Knight-Captain,” Merrill says, coming to stand at Aevalle’s other side. “It’s been an awfully long time.”

“It’s Commander now,” he corrects, shifting his weight. “I’m no longer a Templar.”

“Oh, that explains why you look like you’ve seen sunshine in the past, like, year,” Hawke says.

Cullen only shakes his head at them before looking once more to Aevalle. “Captain,” he says, “this is Dagna. She’s an arcanist who’s volunteered her services—”

“Hello there!” the dwarf in question calls, immediately and eagerly approaching Aevalle, as if she has been holding back since the conversation began. “You’re her! The Captain! I’m Dagna, the—well, Commander Cullen just told you, I suppose. Is it here? Your ship, I mean. I heard about it in Val Royeaux and I just _knew_ I had to come see it, but you’d already left by the time I got to the docks and—can I see it? The Commander told me you call it the _Keeper_ , and someone else said that it speaks to you? Is it true? Am I rambling?”

“Yes,” Cole says, which makes Aevalle smile again. “But it doesn’t bother her.”

“You can go look for yourself,” Dorian says, drawing Dagna’s attention to him. “It’s not going anywhere. As for me, I am long overdue for a hot bath, and the most expensive bottle of wine I can find in this miserable pile of rocks. Are you coming?”

_I have to report to Cassandra_ , she replies, watching as Bull leads the Mayor of Crestwood past them, his hands bound behind his back and his head sagging.

“Of course. You’ll know where to find me when you’re done,” he says, and saunters off towards the exit—which has had all the dirt cleared away, and a set of wooden stairs built up instead.

“If you’re to make your report,” Cullen says, “I last saw Cassandra in the training yard.”

Behind her, Varric coughs.

“I heard someone here wants to see our fancy boat,” he says, a little too loud, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. “I would _love_ to show you every single thing I know about that boat. Right now.”

“Well hurry up then!” Dagna says, already barrelling right past him for the stairs.

Hawke briefly squeezes her arm around Aevalle’s neck before slipping away. “Well, I for one would _kill_ for some fresh air. And sunshine.”

“You’re supposed to be in hiding, Hawke,” Fenris chides as he falls into step at her side.

“But it would be nice to hide somewhere sunny for a change,” Merrill pipes up, half a pace behind them.

All the way back by the stairs, Aevalle can finally hear Stroud’s voice drifting towards them. “I can’t believe this,” he is saying. “This is—truly—a hidden dock? Only accessible by a single vessel?”

Cullen looks to him, frowning—and then his eyebrows shoot up, and his hand goes to the place on his belt where his sword should be.

He glances once towards Aevalle, and she responds with the sign for _friend_. Hoping he understands that much, at least.

His shoulders relax a little. The next glance he sends Stroud’s way is assessing, but no longer alarmed. “Jim,” the Commander says, and the soldier next to him nearly drops the box to salute, before he remembers to put it down. “Have Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine brought here immediately. I suspect we have much to discuss.”

 

Halfway through Aevalle giving her report, Dorian comes back down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “this is—Aevalle, it’s…”

He’s holding a letter in his hand. Dorian’s standing next to one of the bright electric lights, and in its glow she can see the colour of the wax, and the shape of the seal.

House Alexius.

And just like that, she knows.

Dorian is taking her aside and he’s saying _words_ , and telling her _how_ and _when_ , but she already knows. The Blight. Alone, without friends or family at his side.

Once they leave the undercroft, Dorian goes one way—to mourn as he knows best, and she won’t begrudge him for it. But she finds her steps leading her away from the tavern, this night. Down a path she and Solas once walked, down a long beach, to an empty stretch of shoreline where they had sat and she had confessed her failure.

_I couldn’t protect them_ , she’d signed then.

Now, she stands, the waves lapping about her ankles, and she thinks, again, _I could not protect him_.

Is it irony, she wonders? Varric would know, if she asked him. That she was offered to Alexius as a cover to keep her close at hand until he could turn back time and fix their mistakes with their ritual. That, after failing so completely in keeping her clan safe, her next charge was a dead man?

And he saved her, in the end.

The months before finding Deshanna in that basement are a blur to her, still. A haze of pain and rage punctuated by single, bright moments of clarity. Of peace. Waking up, realising she had fallen asleep under a tree in the estate’s grounds—Felix reading, his back to the trunk. No beatings, when he discovered she’d woken. No anger. Only a smile as he looked up to find her glaring at him, marking his place in the book.

_Sleep well?_

A wave rushes past her, _through_ her, up to her knees and she inhales with it. She’s crying, now—hot, angry tears spilling down her cheeks. As it recedes she can feel it pulling, hard, and she has to take a step forward to steady herself, so she doesn’t come crashing down into the undertow.

She digs her toes into the sand, and closes her eyes to steady herself. Even as the ocean _pulls_ at that place inside her that always leaps to answer.

It’s not the first time she wonders what would happen, if she just let it pull her as far as it wants to take her. When she was with her clan still, she thought it would mean adventure—that the ocean pulled her to all the places it touched, the lands of the stories her father used to tell.

Now, she suspects that it would only drag her down to depths so deep, the pressure of the water would crush her bones.

As the tide rushes in, she stumbles up the shore, away from the water. Raking a hand through the mess of her wind-swept hair, she catches a glimmer of light on her wrist—and she glances over at it, frowning.

It’s the bracelet Solas bought for her. Moonlight catching in one of the blue, blue beads. The rope isn’t so stark white any longer—it’s been through everything she has since then. Through the flooded basement of Seahold, to fleeing a dragon in the storm-ravaged ocean, to battling a corrupted spirit in a circus tent as it collapsed around her.

The beads still shine, though. Clear, brilliant blue.

_Find another clan,_ Deshanna had begged her. _Protect them_.

She closes her eyes, and just takes a moment to _breathe_.

She sits near the spot where Solas had held her, where she confessed her failures and he sang a eulogy for her clan in her stead. She reaches into her jacket and takes out the first piece of black coral, and her knife. There is more than enough moonlight for elven eyes to see, on a night like this, so she begins to carve. She works with the shape of the piece, making the body a little sleeker, carving out a long nose and making a hollow for horns off the back of its head. She carves into its body the whirls her mother used to etch into everything she crafted, as best as Aevalle can remember. As best she can imitate; she does not have her mother’s patience, nor her steady hand.

She has not carved like this in years. Not since she dragged her father’s body back to the clan, alone. It had been a smaller token—she’d nearly broken it in half a number of times. Cut her hands plenty, though she hadn’t felt it, numb with grief.

She finishes the halla before midnight, and she does not cut herself once. She holds it in her palm, and it seems… heavier, now that she is finished. Now that she looks down at it, at the moonlight in the lines she has carved, little flecks of coral dust lingering on the slope of its horns over its back.

It is too small, she thinks, for a whole clan _and_ Felix Alexius. But there is not enough black coral in the world to contain her grief.

She washes the last dust from the carving in the ocean, lapping now at her toes. The tide will start to recede soon. She has no raft of driftwood to light aflame, no voice she can raise in mourning song, but she holds the carving in her hand and thinks, _They were my clan. He was my friend._

Seawater drips from the little halla, and for now, that’s enough. So she tucks it into her pocket—and then, after a moment’s hesitation, takes the other half out.

She holds it up to the moon. Lets it illuminate the rough silhouette for a moment. She turns it over until the odd little bump is on the top, and tilts her head a little as she examines the natural curve of the coral. Almost twisting around her finger—a little like Wisdom had curled its great body in the air around her, as it sank slowly to the ground.

Her wrist is framed by the beads on her bracelet. The way they catch the moonlight, it almost looks like they’re glowing with a soft blue light.

She bends over, and begins carving black coral once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway fun fact about irl black coral, you probably shouldn't buy it???? Apparently the jewelry trade is kind of killing it off because it grows super slow. 
> 
> Let's just all pretend I didn't start and complete an entire other fic in between this chapter and the last one. Let's just... pretend together, okay?


	20. Two Bright Things

Cassandra Pentaghast stands before the war table, the morning sun filtering in through the windows, and scowls down at the map spread across it. More specifically, at the region in the Western reaches of Orlais—which on paper is marked by little but a barren stretch of coastline, void of any mark of civilization, save for a single island off its coast.

_Adamant Fortress_ , it says.

She remembers some of the very old maps her uncle had kept on display. As a child, she had found them impossibly entrancing— _romantic_ , perhaps. The paper browning with age, lines fading in places, and sometimes entirely missing a corner. Ripped off or rotted away, she couldn’t tell.

Whoever had drawn those maps always added illustrations, to any stretch of open ocean. Sunken ships, or figures that were more elf than sea creature—she has amused herself by thinking of how she could correct them, were they alive today.

In the seas around Adamant Fortress, there were always dragons. Or great squid. Or angry sea monsters that she could not identify, if asked.

A testament to the dangers of a sea famous for wrecking most ships that sail its waters.

She, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine had been up nearly all night discussing it—after Bull filled in the missing parts of Aevalle’s report. The battle with the demon, Solas vanishing without a trace, and then somehow stumbling upon the Champion of Kirkwall…

(She’s no fool. Of _course_ the dwarf had something to do with it.)

In the end, even Cullen had reluctantly agreed: the only option, it seems, is using the _Keeper_ to sneak into the fortress.

Doesn’t mean she has to _like_ it.

There are still too many things that can go wrong—if they are discovered, they have no backup, and the Divine has not granted permission for breaking into a fortress of the Grey Wardens. Though, even if she had, the Wardens fall under no direct authority but their own—they can, by and large, do as they please.

_Such as make an attempt on the Divine’s life_ , she thinks.

She leans back on her heels and rubs her palm across her face.

Stroud had been adamant that they leave as soon as possible. It is close to the full moon, after all, and the higher the tide, the higher chance that there will be enough of the fortress flooded for them to enter unseen.

_The stronger their mages as well_ , Cassandra thinks wryly. And the Wardens have a great many mages.

There was a note in an elegant hand waiting for her in the morning—Madame Vivienne has already volunteered her services, without having been officially informed of this mission. The mission Cassandra has not officially granted permission for.

She presumes Dorian Pavus will come along as well—even without being asked, although Josephine has assured Cassandra that she will offer the man a generous salary in exchange for his aid. _A… contractor, of sorts_ , she had mused, scribbling away on her paper. _There is no need to give him official military rank, when we do not know how long he will be staying._

“So,” Cassandra grumbles. “Counting Hawke, that makes three mages, against an army of them.”

“Four, if Solas ever returns.”

Cassandra barely glances at Leliana as she breezes into the room.

“He is not a soldier,” Cassandra reminds her, tucking her hands behind her back. An old habit, to keep herself from fidgeting. “And there is no guarantee he would agree to come.”

“He has already proven himself to be an impressive Tide Mage, on par with Madame Vivienne and the Altus Pavus. And,” she says, her lips curving in a little half-smile, “you know as well as I that where Captain Lavellan goes, he follows.”

Cassandra sighs, then inclines her head. “If he returns in time,” she allows. “Or at all. Then we have _four_ mages and a handful of soldiers against an army.”

“I think that plenty for a simple reconnaissance mission _,_ Cassandra.”

They are interrupted by a knock on the door. Cassandra glances up, and sees that Leliana never closed it—and that one of Cullen’s soldiers is standing there, slightly out of breath.

“Report,” she says, squinting slightly at him. What is his name, again? She thinks it starts with a J…

He salutes quickly. “Lady—er—that is—”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Forget the titles, and out with it.”

He coughs once. “You—er, I was asked to inform you the moment Mister Solas returned. And he has—walked off a passenger ship not twenty minutes ago.”

“And?” Cassandra asks, approaching the young soldier. Perhaps with a bit more intensity than she should, because he actually shrinks back a little in response. “Where is he now?”

“Ah—he went straight to his study, ma’am. Didn’t—didn’t stop or talk to anyone.”

“He’s still there?”

“Er—yes? I mean, the door’s locked, so…”

“Has Captain Lavellan been informed?”

An expression that speaks of simultaneous confusion and alarm crosses the man’s features. “No?”

“Then what are you standing around here for? Find her at once.”

He lets out a squeaky sigh, salutes once more, then turns on his heel and runs out of the room.

When Cassandra turns back to Leliana, the spymaster looks positively _smug_.

“I’ll have Josephine pen a letter,” Leliana says, and practically clicks her heels together before breezing past Cassandra and out of the room.

 

Aevalle finishes the second carving late into the morning.

She has pocketed it and has almost reached Seahold once more when she sees one of Cullen’s soldiers sprinting up the beach towards her.

He skids to a stop on the sand, and he tries to speak but he’s utterly out of breath. He has to bend over a while, his hands on his knees, and she waits patiently as he gulps air into his lungs, frantically. She was walking low enough on the beach for seawater to rush over her ankles at the crest of each wave, rushing in, and she watches a few roll over his boots while he tries to compose himself.

He reeks of sweat—like he’s been running around in his heavy uniform for _hours_.

“Sorry,” he wheezes. “I—Cassandra sent me. Mister—he—Solas. Solas is back.”

She feels like the receding waves have pulled all the air in her lungs out to sea.

_Where_ , she signs. _Where is he?_

She doesn’t actually know if he understands her, but he takes another moment further to respond. “Study,” he manages to say between gasping breaths. “His—his study.”

She thanks him as quickly as she can, and immediately takes off at a run.

She sprints up the beach as far as it goes—but then the rocky cliffs that the fortress is built into rise up before her, and she is forced to detour up into the town. The market is bustling with activity, and Aevalle is forced to slow as she weaves through the crowd, her heart racing all the while.

Some people call her name—a few shopkeepers, the ones she used to visit often with Solas and Bull—but she ignores them as she runs. She’s searching only for gaps, for a path around the large cabbage cart _blocking her way_ —

She runs over it. Leaps up onto the fountain edge to avoid a few old women deep in conversation. She scrambles into a side alley, then up onto a building, and runs on rooftops until the spaces between the buildings grow too great.

“Boss?” calls a familiar voice from below. “What the hell—”

She leaps off the roof of the tavern and rolls on the hard-packed earth to break her fall, then keeps running.

The guards on the bridge to Seahold give her odd looks as she charges across it, but they do not bar her entry. There are soldiers performing drills in the courtyard, and so she turns and charges up the stairs that lead to the ramparts instead of through it—nearly barrelling over servants carrying boxes full of supplies that she doesn’t honestly look twice at.

A few people curse at her, but she ignores them.

She doesn’t stop once—whirling around corners, over obstacles, through groups of people without so much as a wave or offered apology. All the while her heart is in her throat, her thoughts whirling, because _he came back_.

She finally comes to a stop outside the door to his study. Gasping for breath, winded now that she’s arrived. But she doesn’t take a moment to compose herself—she raises her hand and knocks, forcing herself to be gentle. Two quick knocks, a pause, and then three. So he knows it’s her, and not anyone else.

She waits, but the only sounds are her own breaths, desperate for air.

After too many racing heartbeats to count, she shakes her head, frowning, and knocks again. Louder this time. Two, then three.

Again—silence.

She takes a step back, heart sinking—and her foot brushes against something. She looks down and finds a tray of breakfast sitting on the floor. A kettle gone cold, lemons, honey, some eggs and bread.

She lets out a huff as she stares down at it. But then she shakes her head again, and steps forward to press her ear against the door.

She has to strain to hear it through the heavy wood. But she _can_ hear movement inside—though it’s faint, and she can’t quite figure out what it is. She can’t hear footsteps—but he wears footwraps like her, so it would be hard to hear anyway… She _thinks_ she can hear the dull clink of… paintbrushes, perhaps, or maybe sticks of charcoal. Brushing against one another.

Her fingers curl on the door. She lingers a moment longer—but if he wanted her to know what he was doing in there, he would have let her in when she knocked.

Reluctantly, she pulls away from the door.

 

She tries again that evening—and then the next morning, and that evening as well.

After her fourth attempt, Varric snatches her away from that long hallway with a crooked smile and the promise of a free drink. Stealing her away from the endless meetings about Adamant, or from telling Dagna what Keeper has to say, instead letting him put a tankard in her hand and sitting her at a table.

She does _not_ let Sera turn it into too many—she could swear her head still aches from the last time.

But it is a nice distraction, being in the bustle of the tavern once again. Sitting at a table, her tankard in front of her and several cards in her hand, Varric on one side explaining the rules, Dorian on the other complaining about the smell.

Sera drops herself into the seat next to Dorian and belches as loud as she can.

Dorian stops mid-sentence, sighs, and then reaches for his yet-to-be-touched tankard. “I honestly don’t know what I expected,” he says, and takes a sip.

Aevalle shakes her head, and glances up to see Bull pulling up a chair across from Dorian. She wonders if being a spy is like cheating for Wicked Grace, and some of that must come across because the look that Bull gives her is certainly a _knowing_ one.

“Pretty sure the Hanged Man was worse,” Hawke is saying from her seat across from Varric. “Like, ‘someone probably died in here in the last five minutes’ worse.”

“Everything is worse in Kirkwall,” Dorian quips back. “That is _hardly_ a standard by which any establishment would be proud.”

Hawke nods in a manner that clearly means _fair enough_.

Blackwall joins them, taking a seat beside Sera. “Solas still hiding away in his study, then?” he asks as he glances around the table.

As soon as he’s said it, he jumps in place. The glare he sends Bull pretty much confirms that he’s just been kicked in the leg.

“You listening, Drifter?” Varric teases, pulling her attention away from Blackwall and Bull. Deliberately, she thinks, but she lets herself be distracted.

She places the cards face-up on the table so she can sign, _You’re acting like I’ve never gambled before. I’m not going to walk out of here naked Varric, I promise._

“Good,” he says, “because I’ve seen your tits enough to last a lifetime.”

“Aren’t they _peculiar_ about showing a little skin?” Merrill muses, leaning around Varric so she can look at Aevalle. “I’ve always thought that so strange.”

“I never complained,” Bull pipes up. “Hey, Boss, what’s the sign for _tits_?”

“Do not show him that,” Dorian grumbles.

He already knows it—she showed him _ages_ ago, while Solas rolled his eyes and pretended he wasn’t paying attention—and Bull’s smirk confirms he’s more interested in teasing the mage than increasing his vocabulary.

“Alright, then,” Varric says, louder than he needs to—probably to keep everyone from bickering. “If everyone understands the rules, we can get started. Drifter, why don’t you deal the first round?”

They fall into the game with ease. Despite her claims, Aevalle is more used to gambling for chores in her clan than money, so she doesn’t make very many bets. She folds most hands early on, much more interested in watching the show unfolding before her.

Sera runs out almost immediately, to no one’s surprise—and she surprises Aevalle by taking off a bracelet next round and throwing that in the pile.

“Are you terribly sure that’s worth enough to call?” Dorian wonders, reaching out to pick it up. It’s made of wooden beads, and as Dorian holds it up to the light Aevalle can see that all the beads have been painted different colours, though most of it has flaked off in the salt air.

“You gonna tell a little orphan kid that ain’t enough?” Sera challenges. “She made that with her own two hands, yeah? I think that’s somethin’.”

“Sentimental value doesn’t count, Buttercup,” Varric agrees, clearly amused.

Sera curses and snatches the bracelet out of Dorian’s grasp—and then leans around his back. “Hey, ‘Valle,” she hisses, “spot me one round, yeah?”

Aevalle places her hand face-down on the table and signs, _I’m not doing too well myself._

Sera rolls her eyes. “Yeah,” she says, “you gotta actually _play the game_ to do that. How ‘bout—gimme that necklace you got. I’ll win it back, promise.”

Aevalle reaches up and wraps her hand around the necklace in question—the black coral halla, strung on a seal leather thong by the gap between its horns and its body. It must have slipped from under her shirt at some time during the day—she tucks it back, shaking her head, and does not explain as she leans forward and picks up her hand again.

Merrill’s probably the only one at the table who knows what it means—and that you’re not meant to keep them—and Aevalle glances her way, over her cards.

Her eyebrows have shot right up. She catches Aevalle looking, and quickly averts her gaze.

“If that’s all you’ve got, then…” Dorian starts to say, pulling a number of coins from his stash.

Sera curses. “Wait,” she grumbles, and reluctantly tosses a fine little bit of folded leather on the table. It’s very nice—she thinks the stitching has real gold in it, and while a touch faded the leather has been dyed an attractive red.

What _really_ catches her eye, however, are the few slim pieces of metal slip out with as the pouch slides to a stop on the table.

“Very pretty,” Dorian concedes, his tone a little dry. “I’ll have to clean it before I hang… whatever that is on my wall. I raise twenty.”

Sera curses, throwing her hand down on the table, and everyone either starts hassling poor Sera or considering their hands.

Before anyone else can call him, Aevalle shoves her meager coin stash forward into the pile. Everyone freezes in place, glancing between her and the only raise she’s made all night.

_All in_ , she signs.

 

The next morning, Aevalle walks down the hall to Solas’s study, her prize from Wicked Grace tucked safely in her pocket.

The young woman who has been taking Solas his food is coming back down the hall with yesterday evening’s tray in her hands—and she catches Aevalle’s eye and shakes her head, same as yesterday when they passed one another. Some of the food has been eaten, but the mess on the plate makes it clear that it was mice, and maybe one of the keep’s dogs, but not Solas.

Her steps carry her down the hall, and she stands before the door. Same as the last two mornings, she raises her hand and knocks—twice, then pauses, then three times.

And, as before, no matter how long she waits there is no response.

She gives it a moment longer—crossing her arms, shifting her weight back and forth. He will open the door, she thinks, trying not to look down at the door handle. He will open it, there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this…

With an annoyed huff, she presses her ear to the door. She can’t hear any movement at all. She closes her eyes, and waits a little longer, straining to hear…

Nothing. Nothing at all.

She backs up from the door and runs a hand through her hair.

This is absolutely a breach in privacy.

It’s a terrible idea and she’s a horrible person for even thinking of it.

Solas would open the door if he wanted her there.

But… She glances down at the platter of food, still warm, but as untouched as all the others. He hasn’t eaten in two days. At _least_.

She’ll just… drop in. Make sure he hasn’t… starved to death. Or something.

She glances behind her—but this is the only door in this hallway, and no one has any business coming and going since Solas will not see anyone. She drops to one knee, pulling the leather pouch out of her pocket in the same motion, unties the little leather string, and rolls it open over her leg.

It is a _very nice_ lockpick set.

She has no idea, honestly, where Sera got such a thing—Sera isn’t normally all that interested in fine things, although flashy is _definitely_ her style. The leather itself is nice, but the tools are high quality. Heavy, though fine—they won’t bend or break easily.

Her father’s set certainly wasn’t this nice. One of the tools was literally held together with twine.

The lock to Solas’s room hardly stands a chance against such an excellently crafted set—even in her out-of-practise hands.

She’s… probably not going to give that set back, after all.

The door opens a crack—and she stays very still, and listens, but the only sound she hears is a rush of wind as air is suddenly given a passage out of the room, and some papers fluttering in the breeze.

She takes a steadying breath, then picks up the tray of food and enters Solas’s studio.

She nudges the door closed behind her with a heel, frowning at the state of the room.

Solas normally works in near-immaculate conditions—he keeps paints separate, his workspace tidy, always wears a smock and cleans brushes thoroughly, keeping only one or two sketches out of his book, swapping out whichever ones he needs.

She suspects what she sees is not an unacceptable level of mess, to other artists. There are sketches come loose from his book blown about the room, and some of them are stuck to the floor with what she thinks must be smears of paint. She sees a few paintbrushes on the floor, and lines of paint from where they rolled. Not cleaned up—there’s even half a footprint in one. The fireplace is a mess of ash—he hasn’t cleaned it out between fires, which from the look of the thing would have been going all through the night for the last two days. He didn’t even extinguish the last one—from the little plume of smoke rising, it seems more like it smothered itself, run out of fuel to burn.

It takes her a moment to spot him—sprawled out on the same couch she’d slept on, weeks ago, not even a blanket to cover him. He’s lying on his back and she can see paint splattered and smeared all over his shirt, little strokes he’s painted on his bare arms to test colour, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s so _unlike_ him, not to wear a smock—and there’s even a smear on his cheek!

But his chest rises with steady, even breaths, and he looks so _peaceful_ , that she finds all she can do is shake her head and smile a little.

She has to shuffle around quite a few loose pages, and many of his brushes and his palette, in order to place her tray on the table. And after she’s managed that, she takes the second token of black coral she carved out of her pocket. She considers it a moment—an orca, curling perfectly around the thumb she runs over it—and then places it on the tray where he will see it.

It takes her a moment to find a blanket—she finds his soft green vest first, discarded somewhere on the floor—but she picks her way over his scattered belongings as delicately as she can, righting things where she thinks it appropriate, starting to gather his scattered sketches and deliberately not looking at them, because he’s never let her look in his book and she’s _not_ in here to snoop. She’s _not_.

When she finds the blanket, she picks her way back over to Solas and, finding him still asleep, tucks him in as delicately as she can.

That’s when she notices that the smear on his cheek is a bright, vibrant red.

Precisely the same red that spills over her shoulder into her line of sight as she draws the blanket up about his chest.

Her hands still. She stares at it, her lips parted—as if it will explain itself, somehow, if she just stays there long enough.

Eventually, she does look up. Over towards the windows, where the easel she _thought_ Cassandra’s portrait was resting on—turned to face the window, so it will dry.

But Cassandra’s portrait—mostly complete, just missing some fine details—is on the floor, leaning against the wall. An entirely new canvas is resting on the easel.

She approaches the new painting slowly—her heart in her throat the whole while. She can’t say why, really—or why her hands tremble, or why she hesitates a moment, makes herself _breathe_ before she steps around the easel, puts her back to the window, and looks at what Solas has spent the last two days working on.

He… has painted _her_.

And it’s beautiful.

She recognises the setting immediately—the battered circus tent, fallen around her to expose an early evening sky, only ashes now where flames were soothed by the spirit’s magic. The spirit itself floats through the air about her as if it were in the sea—an orca, its size making her feel so very small, even just like this. A soft blue light seeps out from it—soothing, casting lights like the reflection of water on her skin.

Everything surrounding her and Wisdom is broken, burned—ash and darkness. But in Wisdom’s light, she can see her expression—the green of her eyes, wide with wonder, the hook of her nose, light catching the shape of her ears, and her hair lit like a flame as it falls over one shoulder. She and Wisdom, two impossibly bright things, surrounded by death and despair.

It is the moment before she realised that something was wrong. The moment where she thought they had succeeded—that they had saved Solas’s friend.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding—and as it shakes out of her, she reaches up and rubs at her eyes with one of her palms. She’s shed enough tears for all her failures, she thinks.

When she looks up at the painting, Solas is awake. Propping himself up on one elbow as he watches her, his expression impossibly soft and fond.

There are dark, dark circles under his eyes. But he is smiling, and his eyes are bright as he sits up on the couch.

_You came back_ , she signs.

He lets out a breath that feels more like a heavy sigh. “Of course I did,” he replies, softly.

Her heart, silly thing that it is, flutters at his words.

_How are you?_ she finds herself asking as she steps around the painting.

His gaze falls a moment, but when he looks back to her he is smiling again. A little sadly, she thinks, but then there’s something about Solas that always has a little bit of grief about him. It’s soft enough to be mistaken for him being reserved, or distant—but standing here, across the room from him, she can see it clear as day. And she doesn’t really know what to do about it.

“I will endure,” is what he says. But then his smile deepens, and he gestures to the platter. “I see you’ve brought breakfast.”

She has to resist the urge to wring her hands—or flee from the room. _I was worried_ , she admits.

He does not bring up the painting. He only shakes his head a little, and stands to approach the table and the platter. He takes the teapot first, and lifts its little lid to throw in a lemon half—

And then he pauses. His brow furrowing, he hesitates a moment longer before reaching out and picking up the token.

She wants to cover her face with her hands. Compared to the painting she just saw, her lines are childish, her cuts unsure. Too rushed by far, she thinks—and she balls her hands into fists at her sides, so she doesn’t lunge forward and snatch it from his grasp.

As Solas looks at it, however, there is only wonder in his gaze. He holds it in one palm—such a little thing—and trails his fingertips over it, as if he is afraid to truly touch it. As if it will break apart, or vanish from his sight, if he holds it too tight.

When he finally speaks, his voice is thick. “This…” He has to pause to clear his throat. When he looks at her, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Thank you. I cannot—”

He looks down at it again. He curls his fingers over it, protectively, and closes his eyes a moment. She can feel a pull under her skin as he calls a little magic—and it makes her heart leap in her chest, bumps rise all over her flesh. She doesn’t know what manner of spell it is, but it is a small, subtle thing.

He opens his palm again—and the figure looks the same, she thinks. But… it feels different.

“And to think,” he says, softly, “all I have to give you in return is a painting.”

She’s not sure if she wants to laugh or cry—both seem to bubble out of her, in the same heartbeat, and she draws a shaking hand to her mouth to cover it.

“Aevalle,” he says, weaving his way towards her through the mess in his study. “Whatever is the matter? _Ir abelas_ , I didn’t mean to upset you…”

After a moment has passed and her heart has _still_ not calmed, she can only shake her head at him. Because—because she doesn’t _know_ what’s wrong. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s high in her throat, but still somehow rattling in her chest—and she doesn’t _know_ , but she can’t think of anything but a bleak landscape, and two bright things in the center of it. Wisdom’s dying spell lighting up her eyes.

He locked himself up for two days to paint that. In a _frenzy_ , if the state of his study is any indication?

She does not answer him—she finds herself asking, instead, _What does it mean, Solas? The painting?_

He exhales, and it’s almost a laugh. His lips twitch, and it’s _almost_ a smile—one that shines in his eyes, no matter how he tries to hide it.

He stands before her—impossibly close. Closer than he has ever stood—only as close as they were in dreams, as she pulled him out to sea.

This is a terrible idea, she thinks.

But it’s not the first time she’s thought that about Solas.

“I have not forgotten the kiss,” he says, his voice soft and low.

And… and it’s like she’s pulled two ways. The first, the ocean—ever-present, giving nothing back. Calling her, demanding, taking, and taking…

Then Solas. Who is so steady, and strong, that sometimes she doesn’t even feel the tide pulling at her bones when she’s with him.

As she stands there, hesitating, pulled one way and the other, Solas reaches down and takes her hand. So, so gently—twines his fingers in hers, and oh but they are _trembling_ , and his eyes are _desperate_ as he looks down into hers.

How many times has he watched her flee, to protect him?

This, she finds, is the hardest yet.

“Stay,” he whispers, leaning in, and it’s a _plea_.

One she cannot ignore.

All at once, she surges up, and he rushes down to meet her.

Their lips collide, and it is desperate. Electric. He lets go of her hand to wrap his arms around her, to pull her closer still, and she winds her arms around him in turn. Her fingers dig into his shirt as she breathes in the turpentine he uses in his paints, the musk of his sweat, as her lips drag in the taste of salt air on his skin, and under that the salt taste of his own sweat.

Creators, she kissed him in the Fade, but this is _better_.

He is real, here, solid. She presses into him and he does not resist—answering in kind with a desperation of his own, his lips sliding against hers, and _that’s_ a kind of pull she hasn’t felt in a long time. The pull of skin on skin, as delightful a friction as the drag of his breath into her lungs, the rush of air on her skin, the thunder of her heart against her chest as she presses as close to him as she can.

At the end of it all, his tongue, flicking her lips gently. And as she opens them to answer in kind, he pulls back—for air, if the desperate rise and fall of his chest is any indication.

His pupils are dark, and wide, and his eyes are lit with unabashed _delight_. His sorrow chased away, for a moment, as they stand there and stare at one another, eyes wide, gasping for breath.

One of his hands rises to cup her cheek—shaking, steadied when she leans into his touch.

And then he says, voice low and soft but _sure_ , “ _Ar lath, ma vhenan_.”

She honestly forgets how to breathe for a moment.

She stands there and stares up at him for—how long? She’s not certain. Because—because those are words that she _knows_ , words that sound like _home_ , like _clan_ , but no one has ever spoken them to _her_ , before. And she—

_Is that how to describe how I feel_ , she wonders. So stunned she honestly nearly tries to speak the words out loud.

But he is not waiting for a response, it seems—or the tightening of her fingers in his shirt is enough, because he only smiles again, shaking his head, and dives in once more.

She parts her lips, his tongue slips into her mouth, and there is a knock on the door. Loud, and urgent.

“Mister Solas!” someone is calling, and a rush of cool morning air bursts through the room as the door swings open.

They break the kiss, startled more than anything, and the wind blows Aevalle’s hair between their faces. She raises a hand to pull it back before it gets in Solas’s mouth—

“Mister Sol—”

When she’s gotten her hair under control, Solas has half-turned to face the door—still holding her, though one of his hands is sliding down her back a little. He’s openly _glaring_ at the man standing in the doorway—that scout Cullen is always yelling at, the same one who found her on the beach. Mouth hanging open, eyes blown so wide it looks like they might pop out of his skull.

“Uh,” he finishes, lamely.

“Do you enter every room in this keep so urgently?” Solas asks him, coolly.

Aevalle bites her lip to keep herself from laughing. Solas’s eyes flicker to hers, and the corners of his lips quirk up in an _infinitesimal_ smile.

The poor scout blushes. And then he salutes, stiff as a board, and remembers to close his mouth and blink, once or twice.

“Sorry, sir,” he blurts. “If you’re—if you’re taking visitors, then—Lady Pentaghast said—she’ll want to know at once! At—at once!”

And with that, he turns on his heel and _flees_ down the hallway, leaving the door swinging open in his wake.

Solas does not move away from her—but the mood between them has shifted some, she thinks. His attention drawn elsewhere, as she watches his brow crease in a frown.

“What does Cassandra wish to speak to me about that is so urgent?” he wonders, his gaze falling back to Aevalle.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and sighs, and though it pains her like a physical thing she takes a half step back, so she can lift her hands in the air and sign, _We found the Wardens, Solas. They’re at Adamant._

He smiles, warm and broad, and he takes one of her hands in his to press a kiss to her fingers. “One step closer to your freedom, then,” he says.

There’s something about his eyes, and in the way he hovers there a moment without moving, his grip drawing tighter on her hand, that speaks of sorrow.

But as soon as she notices it, he turns away. “Perhaps you should fill me in before she arrives,” he begins to say.

She interrupts him with a grin of her own, mischievous and fond, as she tugs him back to her again. Her fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, and she delights in the low rumble of his laugh as she stands a little taller, and he bends a little lower, and their lips meet once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you (somehow) missed the [beautiful painter Solas](http://nipuni.tumblr.com/post/145629990080/im-reading-this-awesome-fic-black-coral-by) that the lovely Nipuni made, then here it is. That was the inspiration for Solas's impossibly messy study (and the state of his shirt) during this scene. <3 I have actually bought that print, and it's beautiful, but I accidentally got it too big and now I don't know where I'm going to hang it ^^;


	21. Dead Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the end notes for content warnings. [An alternate version of this chapter has been posted on my tumblr with some of said content edited out, and warnings on the top for what wasn't.](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/blackcoral21-alternate)

Aevalle has spent days now in a whirlwind of preparations, endless meetings and briefings with Cassandra and the others, hours spent with Keeper and Dagna, watching the dwarf take sketches of runes and doing her best to answer her hundreds of questions while Dorian or Solas interpet.

She feels like every moment she spends with her friends is stolen—Varric sneaking her away for another game of Wicked Grace, determined to get her to actually play this time, or scarfing down food at the tavern with Sera and Bull, or hiding away in the library with Dorian, supposedly helping him pour over books of magic but really just catching a break.

Solas meets her every morning on the battlements—he’s always there first, and he is always watching the sea when she sees him, his hands behind his back and his shoulders set in a straight line. He stares out past the waves, his gaze resting somewhere beyond the horizon that she can never make out.

She only has a moment to study his expression before he notices her—and then his posture relaxes, and his entire face lights up with a small, warm smile.

“Good morning,” he always says—always sounding a little breathless, as if her presence has made it so.

Loranil is settling into the Inquisition well enough—Aevalle doesn’t have much time to check up on him, but she’s asked Varric to keep an eye on the young man for her. One day for dinner Sera drags her down to the tavern instead of the mess hall, and Aevalle finds him sitting next to Solas there, yacking his ear off while Varric tries (and fails) not to look like he’s enjoying himself too much.

Solas, for his part, has that look on his face normally reserved for when he drinks tea.

Taking pity on him, she pulls up a chair on Loranil’s other side, and Varric takes the role of interpreter as she checks up on him. He seems well—though he doesn’t know much about military rank and file, he is earnest, and Cullen has stuck him with a famously patient captain.

“But enough about me,” he says, “tell me—are you any closer to fulfilling your contract with the Divine?”

“Winning her freedom,” Solas corrects.

“Pretty close,” Varric interrupts Solas, interpreting as Aevalle signs. “We can’t talk about the details, but we’re leaving to sort that out… soon.”

“Excellent,” Loranil says. “And where do you plan to go after that?”

It’s a little thing, but Aevalle sees Solas’s fingers curl around the tankard he still has yet to drink from. Just for a moment, before he catches himself and leans back in his seat.

 _I haven’t thought that far ahead_ , is the only answer she can give.

After dinner, she and Solas sneak away to the beach, and she floats in the water as Solas passes glittering seawater over her neck, and the glowing thing inside it that has brought her ruin, and to this place. To his smile as he finishes, and his hand gently cupping her face.

“You should tell me when it troubles you,” he says, softly. Moonlight reflects off the water and dances in his eyes.

She huffs. _I’d be down here in the water with you all day,_ she retorts, making no move to get up.

His smile deepens to something mischievous. “Would that be so bad?”

He kisses her before she can answer him—gently, softly, while the ocean pushes and pulls them. The ocean is gentle, though—there are no crashing waves or raging undertow to separate them. There’s just her, floating on her back, and Solas treading water, his mouth on hers, her hand rising and resting over his, until their fingers twine. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Where _would_ you go?” he asks, as she’s getting dressed again.

Her hands still on the buttons of her shirt, and she glances over her shoulder at him.

He’s standing very still, just above the tide line, and looking in her direction. Waiting for her response, but not meeting her gaze.

“If you could,” he adds, his voice falling so soft that the waves nearly drown him out.

She shakes her head at him. _Not much point in thinking about it_ , she signs, before pausing to finish buttoning up her shirt. _If I go too far from Keeper, Corypheus will find me._

He looks like he wants to press further—but his shoulders relax a little and he relents, instead smiling and reaching to take her hand as they walk back up the beach to the fortress together.

 

It’s the middle of the night, and they leave for Adamant at first light, but Aevalle finds herself hovering outside Solas’s room. She’s got a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the evening’s chill—summer won’t be around much longer—but she shudders, still. The hall seems unusually dark, tonight.

She hesitates a moment—she doesn’t want to _wake_ him, they have to leave so early—but there’s light under his door, and she can hear him moving about inside. So she knocks, but she barely gets through the first knock before the door swings open, Solas on the other side.

He’s still dressed—sleeves rolled up, vest missing, but decent. He’s smiling down at her as if it’s not the middle of the night at all, though she has to squint to see it. There’s light pouring out the door from behind him—warm, all golden like a sunset.

“Good evening,” he says, before stepping aside and allowing her into the room.

 _I know it’s late,_ she signs, her feet passing from cold stone to soft, warm grass. _But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about_.

“Of course.” He’s still smiling—and his eyes are twinkling like something’s funny, but he doesn’t seem eager to tell her the joke. He falls into pace beside her as she walks, and their feet take them down a gentle sloping path through tall, broad trees. Golden sunlight pours through the leaves far above them, alternating dots of light and shadow cast like so many freckles on the ground.

Again, she hesitates—to work up her courage, certainly, but there’s something…

“You had something to tell me?” Solas asks.

She shakes her head to clear it. Her blanket slides a little, and pulls her shirt with it so that one shoulder is bared to the air. She can feel a gentle breeze on her skin—and a pleasant warmth that spreads through her as Solas’s gaze falls and lingers there.

His cheeks colour slightly. Her heart beats a little faster.

 _I want you to stay at Seahold_ , she signs, all in a rush.

His eyes dart down to her hands, then back up to her face. But he only smiles again, and shakes his head a little.

 _It’s too dangerous,_ she continues, _and you’re not a soldier, you shouldn’t have to—_

He stops her with a finger to her lips. “I believe we’ve already had this conversation,” he says, smiling.

She stares up at him a moment. Then looks down at her feet—nestled in long, soft grass.

Solas’s bedroom doesn’t have grass in it.

 _Fuck_ , she signs, and Solas _laughs_.

“Forgive me,” he says, as she glares up at him, “I was going to wait until you figured it out on your own, but…”

 _I can’t believe I didn’t see it_ , she complains, turning her ire now to the tall trees surrounding them.

“You almost did, for a moment,” he assures her.

 _We’re already aboard Keeper, aren’t we_.

“Yes.”

_We’re probably about to be woken up to prepare for arrival._

“Probably.”

_And my subconscious wants to spend it re-hashing an argument we’ve already had._

Solas sighs, then—and with a wry smile he catches one of her hands in his, so he can bend down and kiss the backs of her fingers once, softly.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper against her skin, “I do not want you to go, either.”

She lets out a breath. But before she can make any move to reassure him, or sign anything, he smiles once again, and takes a few steps back, tugging her along with him.

“Walk with me,” he says, “before we wake.”

He looks so earnest, and his touch is so warm—and like there’s an electric current between them, here in dreams—and she does not resist as he leads her deeper into the woods.

 

There are two spells Solas casts for her, in the quiet of her quarters as Keeper approaches Adamant.

There’s barely room for them both in here—there’s room enough for a hammock hung hastily from the walls, and hooks and a box for her gear, but that’s about it. It’s the only private room on Keeper—everyone else had to make do crammed into a room that Keeper insists is for _storage_ , not sleeping, and being informed of the lack of actual sleeping quarters had done nothing to appease it on that front. She can still hear it complaining about it at the back of her mind—a low hum on the edge of her thoughts, slightly buzzing.

“May I see your piece of coral for a moment?” he asks, once the door is closed behind him and the bustle in the hall shut out.

She takes the cord and coral, where it hides under her shirt, and hands it to Solas without question.

He examines it for a length of time—and though his expression is soft and fond, she can’t help but feel a little self-conscious about her work as he turns the little halla over in his hand. But then he closes his eyes, and she feels that familiar pull of magic being worked—of power being pulled from the deep, and the part of her that is connected to it rising up in response.

It only takes a moment. He hands her back the halla, and she takes it from him, expecting it to feel different. As she runs her fingers over it, however, it just feels… more itself, somehow.

“Anything pulled from the water carries the Deep with it, for a time,” Solas explains, his voice low as if someone might overhear. “But black coral has a unique connection—it is an ancient, living thing, bathed its whole life in currents and raw power. Slow to grow, and slower still to let go of the place it came from, even in death. The ancient elves knew a spell to amplify this connection—to let the coral draw from the deep, long after it had dried. Power to preserve itself, and to protect those who carry it from… some measure of harm.”

 _Some measure?_ she asks, after the cord is once more around her neck.

He lets out a low, soft laugh. “I cannot imagine it would offer much,” he admits. “In a world where mages are locked away or made tranquil, I think what small charms or spells the ancients sought to preserve themselves from would be rare indeed. However, it will keep the coral itself from breaking, or leaving your side. And it will continue to draw power from the depths of the sea—enough to power one other spell, for as long as you live.”

Then he takes her left hand in his—and runs his thumb over the bracelet he bought her in Seahold, ages ago now.

She watches intently as his fingertips glow, and then the glow spreads through the whole bracelet. Winding over each individual cord, darkened by sea and earth alike, and settling in each of the blue, blue beads, like water pouring over stone and settling into the cracks.

She stares, mesmerised, watching as the whole bracelet is seeped through with Solas’s magic, as the beads and the rope pull everything Solas gives into themselves, and the soft light gradually begins to fade—leaving behind rope as white as the day he bought it, and beads that glimmer with a faint inner light.

Solas drops his hands, and she raises hers to get a better look at what he’s done.

“Now,” he says, his voice thick, “so long as you wear that bracelet, not a soul will be able to trace you or the artifact in your throat with magic.”

She looks up at him, wide-eyed. And he is watching her carefully, his face forced utterly passive, shoulders and back in hard, rigid lines.

His eyes, however, look impossibly sad.

“When we are finished here,” he continues, “you are free to go wherever you wish. Not even… not even the Inquisition could find you.”

And she suspects that she knows what he meant to say, before his words caught in his throat. She can’t help but smile up at him, reach for his hands, and tug him towards her. She stands a little taller, and he bends a little lower, and she watches his eyes flutter closed before their lips meet.

His lips tremble against hers. But she kisses him, slow and steady, without urgency, like the languid roll of waves in a sheltered bay. She kisses him until his breath catches again, and he leans into her with a sigh, his grip on hers tightening a moment before he releases her hands to wrap his arms around her.

She drops one of hers to his waist in kind—but the other she leaves between them, pressing her palm flat to his chest, over the frantic beating of his heart.

He breaks the kiss when her hand lingers there a moment. He leans back—just enough to look down at her, cheeks flushed, his gaze soft and fond.

He shakes his head, and leans down once more, and someone knocks on her door.

She huffs a frustrated breath against his skin.

“Captain Lavellan,” Cassandra says behind the door, her voice muffled. “We are entering our final approach to Adamant, and require your presence on the bridge.”

Cassandra waits until Solas—closer to the door—knocks three times. And then they stand there and listen to her footsteps as she leaves, and their eyes do not leave one another’s—but the moment is broken, it seems. There’s that sorrow at the corners of his eyes again, in the furrow of his brow, though he tries to smile as his hand comes to rest over hers.

“Now, _vhenan,_ ” he says, “let us go win your freedom.”

Her fingers curl over his heart for a moment, before he finally steps away.

 

Keeper trembles when they pass under the great cliffs that rise up from the sea around Adamant fortress.

Everyone on board hears it—the creaking of metal, a low vibration running through the ship from bow to stern. They all look up at the same moment, as if the ship has scraped something in its passing—but Aevalle looks down at the orb of green light at the centre of the bridge instead, and brings her hands to cup it, gently.

Danger, it insists.

It doesn’t really… use words. She doesn’t think it can—or maybe she can’t hear it clearly enough. Mostly it talks to her in _feelings,_ or sometimes images. Like it brings up flashes in her memory—a captain of a ship her clan used to trade with, or Deshanna and her First casting a spell that would hide them from a passing fleet with mist and rain. Sometimes, like now, she can feel what it feels, somehow inside her but separate—a sense of alarm ringing through her mind, accompanied by lingering undertones of dread, that does not in turn make _her_ frightened. She is just aware of it—and sometimes it’s loud enough that she almost thinks it’s a sound she can _hear_ , but not quite.

Right now, it’s loud enough it’s like she can hear it bouncing around in her skull.

“Report,” Cassandra says, jolting Aevalle back out of her thoughts.

“No damage,” Dorian reports—and sure enough, the display that shows Keeper’s physical status is all green and yellow, just as it was when they left. “No contact with anything, near as I can tell.”

“The, uh.” Blackwall has to pause a moment as he considers the display in front of him. “The… _sensing spells?_ Those haven’t gone off.”

“The ship’s wards are intact,” Vivienne confirms with a single glance over his shoulder. “It seems the disturbance is… internal.”

 _It’s worried_ , she signs, frowning as she tries to puzzle it out herself. _Something here is very dangerous._

“No shit,” Varric says, as if he’s cracking a joke, but sends one more worried look up towards the ceiling as he does.

Sera laughs nervously. It quickly tapers off into silence when no one joins in.

“I’m still for Plan Blow Up The Front Door,” Hawke grumbles, but her further complaints are silenced by a stern, yet somehow fond, look from Fenris.

“In the fortress,” Merrill asks, “or in the water?”

Aevalle waits for a moment, but Keeper offers no further clarification. Only dread, and worry—so she shakes her head, and gestures helplessly.

“The fortress itself is just ahead,” Stroud says from where he leans over a display with Solas and Bull. “That is if this… map is correct.”

“The sensing spells on this ship are more advanced than any of this age,” Solas informs him with an annoyed edge to his voice, “and the finest arcanist I have ever met has ensured they are working again. Of _course_ this map is correct.”

“Apologies,” Stroud amends. “I have full confidence in your efforts. Though I will admit, I would feel much better about this if I could _see_ where we are going.”

A question buzzes at the back of her mind, but she can’t quite make out what Keeper is asking her.

“Have a little faith,” Bull says. “This rust bucket hasn’t killed us yet.”

Stroud grimaces. “That’s comforting.”

It tries again—and this time, she’s very small, and looking up at her mother. Who is healthy, and whole, sitting cross-legged as she carves a spear. She notices Aevalle, and smiling down at her as she puts her tools aside and signs, _Would you like to see, my little skua?_

She inhales sharp and fast—like she’s come up for air.

And all around them, runes alight on the cold metal floor. Aevalle barely has time to look down at them, wide-eyed and startled, before the floor itself warms under her toes, and then the whole of the ship appears to melt completely away.

There are a few startled cries, but they all still breathe—though it looks like they are surrounded completely by a cold ocean, and sheer unforgiving cliffs, Aevalle still stands on solid metal. When Stroud jumps backward from his station, he stumbles only on Bull and the floor, which they simply cannot see.

“Elgar’nan,” Merrill breathes into the silence.

The sea encased by the cliffs of Adamant is… emptier than Aevalle is used to. Even as deep as they are, the full moon is bright enough to illuminate just how void of life these waters are—no shark swims past them, no great thing rising from the depths to feed in the protection night provides from predators. Moonlight does not catch on sleek forms as they rush past, or give a glimpse of great creatures lurking in the distance. Only the cliffs as they approach, dark and looming.

Nothing swims here. Not a thing.

Aevalle glances over at Solas—who is studying her with that narrowed gaze, as he used to when she first arrived. Seeing her looking, however, he quickly smiles and turns to survey the water ahead of them, his hands behind his back.

“Much better,” he says.

Hawke immediately follows with, “No, I think this is _worse_.”

Ignoring her, Solas points to the cliffs ahead. “I believe that cavern should be large enough for Keeper to pass through, if you will direct it that way, Aevalle. Unless you have any objections, Cassandra?”

“No objections,” Cassandra manages to say through gritted teeth. She looks pale, but seems to be taking the sudden transition in their surroundings better than Sera, who honestly looks like she’s about to throw up or pass out.

Everyone watches nervously as they pass through the cavern, the only light for them to see by the runes that glow on the ship’s hull—but though the rocks sometimes come close enough that Aevalle swears she could reach out and touch one, they slip through without even scratching the surface. They cannot move _forward_ on the other side—there is a space just broad enough for Keeper to turn around in—but Keeper begins to rise, assuring Aevalle with slightly distracted thoughts that it knows where it is going.

Eventually, they break the surface, and the floor and walls fade back, until they are standing in Keeper precisely as they left Seahold—with its crew looking perhaps a little more traumatized.

Aevalle and Merrill scout first, guided by magelight, and the others follow. There is a narrow passage, too small for Keeper but large enough for even Bull and his horns to slip through, that leads them to what appears to have once been a storage room, but is still flooded up to their waists. All that’s left are some rusted hooks in walls, and the floor is more sand than stone, but it only takes Bull a moment to clear the doorway, and then they are through.

The hall on the other side is in even worse repair. Bull, the first through the door, nearly falls right into a sinkhole on his first step. He catches himself, obviously biting back a curse, and hesitates a moment.

The water around her feels old, and _wrong_. It does not have the familiar pull at her heart and her bones—but though they passed not one living thing on the way here, and not a mollusc clings to the walls where the water laps at them, she hesitates to call it _lifeless_.

Where there is normally a pull, it feels instead like there is something else. Holding its breath, waiting.

 _I’ll take point_ , Aevalle signs, before pulling out her spear.

Solas looks about to argue for a moment—but he only calls a light spell to his hand, and with a gesture guides it to float in front of her. It lights up the hall ahead of them in the eerie green glow of phosphorescence, bouncing off the ripples created as she takes a tentative step forward, testing the sand underfoot with her spear.

She leads them forward, and Solas falls in step behind her.

“This would be leftover from the days the Grey Wardens kept gryphons here,” Stroud whispers as they make their way down the hall. “They would roost in caves carved out of the cliffs—this must be where their equipment was stored. No one has walked this hall in… ages.”

“I’m guessing it’s not hidden behind a locked door and the Wardens just… mysteriously lost the key,” Varric ventures.

“There are not enough Wardens in Orlais to fill Adamant,” Stroud muses, “and more than enough unexplored halls in it that are relatively dry.”

“Do you feel that?” Dorian asks, out of the blue.

“Yeah,” Sera grumbles, “it’s _cold_ and _wet_ , and it’s called the fucking ocean in my boots.”

Varric chuckles. “Just your boots? Lucky you.”

Fenris makes a sound suspiciously like a laugh, followed immediately by an unconvincing cough.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a _stealth_ mission?” Blackwall says from the back of the line.

Cassandra’s beleaguered sigh is the only response he gets.

“Oh,” Merrill pipes up, “I think I feel it, too. Like swimming too deep—but we’re not _deep_ , deep. Are we?”

Hawke hums thoughtfully. “I thought my ears just needed to pop.”

Aevalle spares a glance over her shoulder at Solas. His jaw is a tight, tight line, and his eyes are drawn up and to the left, as if he’s trying to see through the ceiling above them to the next floor.

He meets her gaze, but his expression is not reassuring.

“Something is very wrong here,” Vivienne agrees, “and as such, I believe _silence_ would be best at this juncture.”

At the end of the hall, there is another blocked door—centuries of grime and debris that Blackwall and Bull clear with little fuss, while everyone else waits with bated breath. On the other side is an old stairway—curiously enough, with ocean water running down the steps, but Aevalle sees no sign of erosion.

There’s a pressure building in her head. She blows a long breath through her teeth and tries to ignore it.

Before anyone can say anything, they hear a sudden splash and clatter of something metal falling, then more splashing and the sounds of a struggle.

“No,” someone cries, “please—please don’t—”

Aevalle climbs the stairs two at a time, the others rushing behind her, as the sounds above them break out into a cacophony of shouting, of screams, of the clash of swords, the echo of gunshots, and a high, unnatural cry that pierces through it all.

She rounds the corner and comes face to face with what seems to be a massive jet of boiling water and steam.

She nearly runs right through it—she backpedals before she does, nearly falling back down the stairs in her haste. She brings her spear up to bear as it whirls to face her, a massive maw opening up, gaps in the rapidly whirling water and steam narrowing into slits like eyes, and she hastily deflects the arm that reaches for her.

Her spear steams in the air, and the demon howls at her as it lunges for her again.

Before it reaches her, a starburst of icicles forms at the tips of its fingers—and it spreads with a rush, coating its whole arm in ice before it can even start to recoil away. She watches it struggle to, as it becomes completely encased in ice.

Bull barely even pauses as he rushes past her to smack it, hard, with the hilt of his saber. Aevalle stares, wide-eyed, as a crack splits the thing clean in two before it shatters into a thousand ice crystals, scattering into the water rushing down the steps. Washed away before she can even reach out.

“Captain,” Solas says behind her as she feels his hand on her shoulder, “don’t run ahea—”

Something brushes against her toes in the water. Something slick, and thin, and very, very cold.

She grabs his hand and throws them both sideways before something bursts from the water directly below her. They stumble, but Solas throws up a barrier as they catch their footing before whatever it is throws itself at them. She watches it writhe against his barrier—and it seems _impossible_ for something that tall to have sprung water only up to her ankles, but it’s like it unravels itself, somehow. A twisted, angular thing, with a gaping maw and twisted flesh, like too many eels strung together to mimic the shape of a man.

“A Fear demon,” Solas explains, as she tries to make sense of what she’s seeing. His voice sharp and hard, as it is when he’s trying not to panic.

She exhales sharp and fast. She does not look back at him as she gives a curt nod.

It reels back for another strike, and she ducks low, and Solas drops the barrier as she strikes out with her spear at the demon’s torso. It twists too quickly, and her tip misses its target as the demon tries to shrink back into the water, a flurry of hisses and clicks accompanying its every move.

But the water rushing down the stairs suddenly stops—out of the corner of her eye, Aevalle can see it held up, building further up like the crest of a wave—and the creature stands uncertainly on the stairs, suddenly trapped.

She spears it through the middle, and it writhes in place, impossible limbs thrashing as an unnatural scream echoes in the hallway around them, amplified by the water and the bare stone walls. She pulls out her spear again, and it’s like the demon begins to collapse inward—its whole body collapsing in on itself, for half a heartbeat, until it gives one last shudder and shatters into a thousand motes of light that fall, without ceremony, to the water at their feet. Where they sparkle like seafoam, until they are swept away.

Not unlike Wisdom as its form fell to pieces.

She glances over her shoulder at Solas and finds his expression hard, his eyes wide with alarm as he stares down at where the spirit once stood. Then his gaze snaps up, and she follows it to where she sees Bull hammering at a mage’s barrier, and Cassandra at his back fending off a blast of ice from a small, agile creature that seems to swim through the air. Its scaly flesh seems to wrinkle around and hang off a skeletal form, and it has so many impossibly long, curved teeth that its whole face seems to be made up of its mouth and nothing more.

Aevalle hears someone shout, and sees Fenris charging up the stairs past her, lyrium glowing—and then two gunshots, and the demon Cassandra is fighting hits the ground with a high, piercing shriek. Cassandra finishes it off with her saber through its heart—and the moment she does, the mage Bull is fighting crumples to the ground without taking a single blow.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sera yells, “are those?”

Fenris reaches the top of the stairs, and more inhuman screams greet him as he dashes beyond her line of sight. Cassandra takes off after him, and Bull moves as if to finish off the mage—but he frowns, leans down for a moment, and then shakes his head and follows Cassandra.

As the others rush past, one by one, to get to the fighting, Aevalle finds her steps taking her to the fallen warden, instead. She kneels down beside him, and reaches out to push him onto his back as Solas leans over her shoulder.

His eyes are wide open, his face drained of all colour and his expression twisted with pain—and as she touches his skin, she finds it cold and clammy. As if he’s been dead for far longer than a few seconds.

Solas sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Damn them,” he snaps. “Fools. How— _why_?”

She looks back up at him—and his whole face is twisted in a rage that she has only seen twice. When they saw what had become of Wisdom; when he shouted _you cannot own a person_ at Alexius.

By the time they reach the top of the stairs, the battle is over. There are two Grey Wardens bound in chains, up against a wall, and three more mages dead on the ground without so much as a scratch on them. There is one more body in the middle of the room lying face-down, bobbing up and down in a small, slow-spinning whirlpool.

Aevalle frowns, and moves to investigate that one—but just before she can reach him, her toes nearly slip off the uneven edge of the hard stone floor. She looks down, and there is a hole that has been dug right through the floor—and from the feel of water rushing about her ankles, it seems as if the water that has flooded the room and the stairs is coming from there.

As she stands on the edge looking down, she can feel… _something_ tug at her. Just a little. And it’s not the usual sort of tug, either.

For his part, Solas immediately marches up to the remaining Wardens as Stroud and Cassandra help to remove their chains and snaps, “What is going on here?”

The younger of the two, a wide-eyed human who barely looks old enough to be a man, responds first. “I don’t know!” he cries, struggling against his bonds. “They’ve—they’ve all gone mad! Mad! The Calling is one thing but— _demons_? Marching into the Deep Roads with a _demon army_? Killing all the archdemons in their sleep?”

Solas’s eyes go very wide. And then his face rapidly shifts between several expressions, all of them too quick for Aevalle to catch, before he seems to decide to be angry again.

“That’s enough, son,” the dwarven woman next to him scolds—with more exhaustion than anything else. Her face is drawn into a scowl, twisting up her caste markings. “Let these folks untie us before they decide if they want to kill us or not.”

“I knew that Tevinter was bad news,” he says, as Cassandra gives him a hand up. “Said they’d be in control the whole time, but that’s _blood magic_ , and you know what the Chant says about those—”

“Actually,” the other Warden drawls in reply, “I don’t.”

“Ves,” says Stroud, offering her his hand, “is all of this true? How can this be?”

The woman looks up at him for a long moment, before she grimaces. “Shit,” she says, “figures the only one with any sense would be fashionably late.” She slaps her hand into his, hard, and grabs her shield from under the water in the same motion he helps her stand.

“Please,” Stroud says. “I fear there isn’t much time.”

She sighs, and shakes her head a few times, although if it’s at the situation or to clear her thoughts Aevalle can’t tell. “You’re damn right, Stroud. That’s the Calling for you—those of us who were asking _why_ and _how_ were outnumbered by everyone who decided the end of the world was coming. And, convenient as ever, this magister waltzes in, and offers us the solution to our problem—and we’ve been opening up holes in the floor and dying one by one, so that we can bind demons to our mages and die in the Deep Roads like heroes.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian interrupts, leaning over the hole beside Aevalle. “Where do they all lead?”

“No idea,” Ves says, “but I’d bet they all go to the same place. And now most of our mages have demon friends, and they and everyone else are all crammed down by the biggest one, probably waiting for the Warden-Commander to off someone and take her turn.”

“What could he hope to gain?” Stroud wonders. “I cannot imagine what goal he would have, to corrupt the Wardens so.”

Dorian steps away from the hole and moves to examine one of the fallen mages. “Getting any demon to come to the surface is easy,” he explains, crouching down to get a better look at their face. “Keeping it there is the difficult thing. They tend to dry out, but most binding spells are rather… immobile. Or unreliable. Unless you bind them to a person, who can go wherever they please.”

“So in short,” Hawke muses, “your fine magisterial friend wanted to have his own personal army, _and_ take it on the march.”

Aevalle catches the significant look Fenris sends Dorian. Ves sees it too, and begins to regard him with a frown.

“You with that other Vint?” she asks Dorian.

“Hardly,” Dorian says, gently touching the dead man’s jaw with his fingertips and tilting the head. Probably to get a better look at the eyes, but it makes Aevalle’s stomach turn. “I assure you, I’m of a much more charming temperament then—what was his name, again?”

“Erimond,” Ves answers.

For a moment, Aevalle doesn’t hear anything else. It’s like the whole room goes dead silent.

And then, bit by bit, she starts to hear a rush in her ears. A heavy, hard knocking. Her chest feels tight—and then something sharp on her hand, but it’s her own nails digging in, she’s gripping her spear so tight.

She remembers Erimond. Can picture him now—with his greasy hair, his yellow eyes and off-putting smile. A snide voice that didn’t even hitch when he said, _Only figured out to use blood magic to keep them alive longer for the last few—and then they go and die before we get any concrete answers anyway._

_A waste, really._

She feels like she can’t breathe. She closes her eyes, but she just sees that boy with the red scales, cut clean in half, just sees Deshanna blinded and bleeding to death—

At her feet, a slow whirlpool spins. Pulling water from a depth she’s never dreamed of swimming. And it feels _wrong_ , and it makes her skin crawl, but—

But somewhere in this fortress, standing next to one of these holes, is the man who gutted her clan like fish and left them to die on tables.

She hears Dorian yell her name as she jumps in.

The surface of the water is deceptively slow-moving—the moment she is below it, her skin rapidly shifting from skin to scale, she is grabbed by a fierce current and _yanked_ downward, dizzyingly fast, but she loosens the soft leather wrapped around her neck, and water rushes through her gills and it’s stale, but she can _breathe_.

She manages to slow herself with a few powerful kicks of her tail—long enough to find purchase on rough stone, and steady herself against the pull of the current as she tries to catch her bearings. It’s pitch black down here—even shifted, where her eyes would normally catch any scrap of light coming from the surface, there simply _isn’t_ any for her to see by.

So she tugs the soft seal leather completely from her neck. She pauses long enough to wrap it around one wrist, tying it with her teeth, and tries to get a good look at her surroundings with just this little, fluttering green light to go by.

She seems to be in a series of caves at the base of the fortress—as far as she can see above her there is a cavernous ceiling, riddled with openings large and small. There is a wall at her back that seems to stretch far below her, but even squinting, she can’t make out anything further away. Or down, for that matter—just a vast stretch of empty, pitch black sea, not a thing living or dead to catch the light pulsing from her neck.

But the longer she looks down, the more certain she becomes that _something_ is down there. Just… waiting.

She takes a moment to feel the current—the one that yanked her down so far seems to end here, or at least grow weaker. She can feel movement in this dead, dead water, and with her eyes closed it’s easier. Several of the other openings in the stone above her have similar currents, but all of them seem to falter and die here.

No, wait—pulled astray, perhaps? As if one is stronger than the others…

She swims closer to the ceiling, one hand gripping her spear tight and the other always touching stone as she moves, in case she needs to brace herself on it or hide. The thing in the depths doesn’t move—or if it does, she can’t tell—as she moves, flitting between stalactites and protective rock forms.

Eventually, she finds one opening so wide across that she can’t see the other side—and instead of down, it seems to be gathering water from whatever depths lie below her and pulling it up.

She peers over the edge, and the current catches her hair so it whips upwards unnaturally fast, towards a tiny spot of light, somewhere far above her.

She closes her eyes a moment—and allows herself half a heartbeat to pause, and touch the halla of black coral hanging about her throat.

Then she lets go of the rock face, and swims into the current.

It catches her and flings her upward, dizzyingly fast—she feels short of breath, like she might burst from the sudden change in pressure, but she holds, she rights herself so she is swimming upward towards that dot of light, growing closer and closer at an impossibly rapid pace—

She bursts from the water and into the air—and turns as she begins to fall, her body shifting of its own accord.

She lands on one hand and one knee—scales still glittering up her arms and legs, her pupils blown wide and catching every scrap of light the room has to offer. Torches, burning high on walls and failing to light a ceiling far above her, or in the hands of the people assembled in the room. She casts a quick glance around, seeing Grey Warden symbols on jackets, people of all races but mostly human, and all of them turning as one to gape down at her where she crouches on a stone floor, flooded up to their ankles with water that rushes out of the hole behind her.

The water at her feet glows green from the light pulsing in her neck.

To her right, standing near the edge of the hole some ten feet away, are a woman with a shaved head and the kind of cane Vivienne carries with her, an old man with a knife to his wrist, and just beside them magister Erimond, staring at her with an absolutely dumbstruck expression.

The man frowns, hesitating with his knife, and the woman opens her mouth and asks, “What sort of demon is this?”

She gets halfway through the question before Erimond raises his hand and shouts, “Catch her! Now!”

She launches herself towards him.

She bursts across the distance between them in a fury—and watches, as she runs, his expression slip from something triumphant, to confusion, and then to outright fear as he reads her expression, and sees her racing towards him with her spear raised, shoving past the two Wardens that stand between her and the man who murdered her clan.

They try to grab at her, but their hands slide uselessly off her scales, still slick with seawater.

Her spear tip crashes into the barrier Erimond raises between them—and then bursts under the weight of her whole body thrown against it as Erimond turns and flees.

“Wardens!” he cries, scrambling into their ranks. “Stop her! _Stop her_!”

The first three are too stunned to even react—she barrels right past them, and a few after them manage to draw their weapons but cannot quite reach her as she follows, gaining hard on Erimond as he is forced to shove people out of his way, clearing a path right for her.

But it doesn’t take long before someone steps in her way—a broad-shouldered human man with a saber in hand, raised over his head to swing down on hers as she charges towards him.

Her spear has the superior reach—and as she deflects his saber with its tip, sending the point low and wide of her face, she keeps up her momentum and ducks low as she runs, charging into his waist. He bends double over her, and in a few more steps she has flipped him backwards over her, only slowed down a heartbeat or two.

She swipes her spear sideways with the next Warden, catching his knees and toppling him down into a tangle of limbs that she leaps over. Behind him is someone with a rifle, who backpedals out of the way, unwilling to shoot his comrades by accident as she charges through them.

Someone comes at her from the side, and she is forced to deviate from Erimond’s path to deflect his saber—and then a club from her back, and she has to move with her spear as she spins on her heel, catching the club between the point and the shaft and letting her momentum rip it from his hands, flinging it out somewhere above the crowd. She raises her arm, and a saber point slides harmlessly across the lapis scales still gleaming on the back of her wrist, unable to find purchase.

Another tries to trip her up, and she leaps over the clumsy swipe with his cane. The attack makes enough of a gap for her to slip through, and she takes it, but it’s not the direction she last saw Erimond, and she bites back a curse as she is forced to stop, yet again, by a broad-shouldered dwarf, who is too low to the ground and sturdy for her to simply knock over.

He tries to simply grab for her spear—and she jerks it forward when he does, slamming his own fist hard into his forehead. Stunned, his stance falters, and she’s able to shove him over—but she’s been forced to pause long enough that now there are hands grabbing at her arms, nails scratching on her scales, trying to simply grab at her and force her to stop—

She tries to fight off the press of bodies, but there are simply too many. She struggles—slips to the side, kicks, and tries to bring her spear to bear but the dwarf gets up again and there’s not enough space between them, now. She bites back a curse, her face twisting into a snarl, but someone gets a hold of her leg and doesn’t let go, and she falters—

It takes five of them to get her down on her knees, spear on the ground. She manages to bloody two noses in the process, but they are simply bigger and stronger than her, and every trick she has to break their hold on her does not work. They start to drag her backwards, then, leaving her spear lying in the water, until someone races forward and scoops it up. A slim elven form—who looks down at the spear in her hands, and then back up at Aevalle with impossibly wide eyes, and a face decorated with Sylaise’s vallaslin.

Aevalle mouths, _Help me_ , as they drag her away.

They take her back to the hole, and the woman who was standing there with the older man at her side, knife put away for the moment. Aevalle cranes her head, scanning the room for Erimond, but she can’t get a good look before they shove her back on the ground. Hands pinned at her back, a knife at her throat.

“What is the meaning of this?” the woman demands, her arms crossed over her chest. She too looks over the crowd, scowling. “Erimond, explain. What manner of demon did you summon, and why couldn’t you control it?”

The man in question is, frustratingly, keeping his distance. He stands on a set of stairs at the back of the room, leaning on his cane as he catches his breath. “A—a rogue element, Warden-Commander,” he calls. “Sometimes… _things_ climb up from the depths, attracted to spells such as these.”

She raises a brow, clearly annoyed.

Aevalle huffs in anger, and struggles, but the men holding her have her firm.

“Then why does it look so much like an elf,” the Warden-Commander wonders, turning and regarding Aevalle a little more closely, “instead of a demon?”

“Just a trick,” Erimond calls, “nothing more. Though if you could detain it, I would like to keep it for further study—”

Aevalle takes a breath, and opens her mouth—

“Wait!”

Her teeth clack together as the Dalish woman bursts from the crowd, still clutching the spear.

“Wait,” she blurts out, “Warden-Commander, please, that’s no demon—I can explain.”

The Commander gives her a long, steady look. “Then by all means,” she drawls, “but quickly, we have a ritual to complete.”

She opens and closes her mouth a number of times—glancing awkwardly between Aevalle, the Commander, and then at everyone else in the room. “That is,” she says at length, “not— _here_.”

The Commander rolls her eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” she says, turning back to the men holding Aevalle. “Have her locked away, I will see this dealt with _after_ the ritual.”

Aevalle jerks against the people holding her, yanking _hard_ , but they don’t even stumble as they pull her backward, and she can _see_ Erimond now, and he’s looking down at her afar, and _grinning like he’s won_ —

“Stop!” calls a familiar voice.

On the other side of the room, on a stair opposite Erimond, Stroud charges through an open door, Hawke, Merrill and Fenris at his side.

His presence seems to make the Commander truly pause. Her eyes widen and something in her stance relaxes—before she seems to remember that he’s a wanted man, and she scowls. “Let him pass,” she calls, as he continues down the stairs.

“This is madness,” he says as he makes his way through the rapidly parting crowd. “Surely, you must see that.”

“We have always made the sacrifices no one else will,” she replies, “that the world will never thank us for. You doubt the cause now that there is blood magic involved?”

“Your Tevinter ally is binding the mages to Corypheus!”

“Corypheus? But he’s dead!”

Aevalle catches movement out of the corner of her eye—she doesn’t move her head to look directly at it, but she catches a glimpse of two horns poking out from behind some of the piled-up rubble that is probably left over from digging the massive hole in the ground. Only fifteen feet away—a glance up, and she can see the shimmer of a glamour spell below a hole in the wall in one of the upper levels. The longer she stares at it, the clearer she can make out the shape of the person climbing down a rope just below it, and the dwarf aiming his rifle through the hole.

“Look at what has been done to that poor girl before you,” Stroud says and Aevalle looks forward again as all eyes are on her. “Her clan killed, her throat marred by some great magic—with the aid of the man too frightened to stand and face her on his own.”

That seems to get Clarel’s attention—she frowns again, looking over the crowd to Erimond, still hovering on the steps and making no move to come closer.

“Perhaps we should see if there is some truth to these claims,” she says, slowly stepping away from the hole at her back.

Aevalle can’t make out Erimond’s expression from this far, but she thinks his face twists up as he says, “Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally,” and slams the end of his cane on the ground.

It sparks with red lightning—and then he does it again, and Aevalle hears a low rumble, and the water at her feet begins to flow a little faster, and something _tugs_ at her—

She kicks off the ground, shoving the men holding her backwards until they stumble, and are forced to let her go.

“Lethallan!”

Aevalle reaches up and catches the spear that the Dalish woman throws her way—and in the same motion turns on her heel, spinning the weapon so its tip points forward, and she faces the hole just as Corypheus’s blighted dragon bursts from the water with a bone-rattling scream.

She surveys the room, sweeping her head high and wide—her left eye an empty socket, a gaping maw of scar tissue, and dried, crusted sea salt, and she does not see Aevalle as her great claws find purchase on the stone floor and she pulls her massive, twisted body out of the water in one smooth motion. She reeks of death, of decay, of a pool of water that has stood too still for far too long.

As the dragon moves from the water, a snarl rising in her throat, Aevalle keeps her spear up and follows her movements, keeping in her blind spot.

The Grey Wardens scramble backwards as the dragon stretches out her massive, tattered wings. They knock into the ceiling when they are nearly fully extended, and Aevalle has to jump back to avoid some large rocks that come crashing down to the floor.

The dragon hisses.

“She’s right beside you, you stupid creature!” Erimond yells, slamming his cane down on the ground again.

When he raises it again, the burst of a gunshot echoes throughout the room—Erimond screams a half-second later, clutching his shoulder, dropping his cane with its now-shattered focus crystal to the ground, right before Cassandra charges down the stairs at his back and knocks his head, _hard_ , with the butt of her pistol.

The dragon whips her head towards the source of the gunshot, twisting her whole body around to see with her good right eye.

And then Clarel hits it in the back of the head with a fireball.

The dragon barely even flinches, even as fire gathers on what remains of her great frills, as the heat blackens her pallid scales for a moment before the flames sputter and die. She snarls, low and deep, and it vibrates through the air and the water at their feet before she whirls, swinging her great tail behind her.

Aevalle catches a glimpse of Clarel before the dragon’s body blocks her from view—and before she stills, her one good eye coming to rest on Aevalle, standing on the edge of the hole in the floor.

The dragon opens her great maw and lunges forward—only to crash into a barrier.

She screams in rage—and Aevalle doesn’t wait around long enough to watch the barrier shatter under the dragon’s second assault, or to greet the man who cast it, even as he races towards her, yelling her name.

“Aevalle!” Solas cries as she races towards his barrier—and as it falls, she drops into a slide, passing unharmed under the dragon’s gnashing teeth. She thrusts her spear upwards, and it catches the underside of the dragon’s jaw and tears her scales open, but Aevalle’s reach isn’t quite long enough and the dragon pulls back before she does any real damage.

She rolls to her right as the dragon’s jaws come snapping down again—and then a makeshift shield of ice rises out of the water in front of her, curving over her, blocking the swipe the dragon makes with its claws, and she scrambles backwards until she can get to her feet, out of the reach of the dragon as it destroys the hastily raised ice wall.

Before she can dart forward again, however, Solas grabs her arm.

“We must _go_ ,” he says, right before Aevalle hears more gunshots—from the Wardens and from behind her, and though she watches them impact, and some of them even burst through disease-ridden scales to the sickly flesh underneath, they only seem to make the dragon angry.

She knows he’s right. Knows she cannot beat this thing—that the dragon will kill her before she can do any real damage. But she watches the dragon take a breath, then swing her head around and burn a wall of flame into the Wardens gathered before her.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas pleads, tugging at her arm.

She can barely hear him over their screams—and for half a heartbeat, they aren’t Wardens. She’s not standing in a fortress. She’s with her clan, and men from Tevinter are cutting down the hunters while the others try to flee—

Bull crashes into one of the dragon’s legs, Blackwall hot on his heels, and her flames die as she turns to face the new threat—leaving her back exposed.

A burst of electricity lights up the air behind the dragon—and she _screams_ as it races over her, her whole body convulsing at it sparks over her. She writhes in place for a moment, her cries reverberating through the flooded room, and as the electricity courses down to the water at their feet Solas throws a barrier up to protect them. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that someone has done the same for Bull and Blackwall, even as they backpedal as fast as they can to get away.

Aevalle hears Clarel cry, “I will _never_ serve the Blight!” right before another, stronger blast hits the dragon.

The dragon staggers this time—before her fins flare, her wings twitch, and with a snarl she whirls on Clarel.

Aevalle gets one glimpse of the woman, standing tall, her cane raised, focus crystal crackling, before the dragon snaps her up in her jaws, yellowed teeth sinking easily through her crisp leather jacket, crushing and the Warden’s bones and tearing her flesh apart. The dragon shakes her prey, then tosses her aside without even bothering to eat her.

Before anyone can even react, the dragon whirls again, but as Aevalle tries to shake Solas off and charge forward he grips her arm harder and tries to pull her back.

The dragon’s claws rake across the surface of the barrier—and this time right through it, and as Aevalle braces herself, Solas suddenly shoves her out of the way.

She hits the ground on her back, and can only watch as Solas is snatched up in the dragon’s claws like a doll, as the great monster carries through with its momentum, turning to plunge itself directly into the gaping hole from which it came.

As the dragons’ great, many-finned tail swings over her, Aevalle reacts without thinking, and plunges her spear directly into it.

Over the pounding of blood in her skull, she hears the dragon’s muffled scream—and then a great crash as it breaks into the water, and then she hears nothing but wind rushing past her ears as she holds onto the spear.

She has the presence of mind to brace before she hits the water—and when her eyes snap open again, her gills and tail form, and though she can hardly _breathe_ she is moving so fast she squints through the water as they whip through it, trying to catch a glimpse of Solas.

She thinks she can see a pulsing light ahead—the colour of seafoam in the sunlight—and she has to believe that it’s him. She _has_ to.

So she grabs a fistful of fin—wretched, diseased fin—and pulls her spear out, so she can thrust it back in— _harder_ , deeper. And she keeps her eyes trained on that light, as they plunge deeper, so deep that she can feel pressure building in her skull, moving so fast that she struggles to _breathe_ as the water grows colder, but the light stays ahead of her so she stabs the dragon again, and _again,_ until she opens a great bloody wound in its tail, and she hears the dragon’s _scream_ echo through the water, and suddenly that soft, fading light is drifting on a different course.

She pulls her spear out and lets go—kicking away from the dragon and swimming, as fast as she can, towards that light. She keeps enough momentum from the dragon’s rapid plunge that she’s beside him in a matter of moments, though it feels like forever—just watching that light sink, slowly, flickering, growing weaker with each frantic kick of her tail.

When she catches Solas, whatever spell he was using to breathe has faded—he is lit only by the erratic flutter of the light coming from her own throat. He has a hand clamped over his mouth, and the other weakly pointing somewhere to her left.

She follows—pulling him with her as fast as she can, even as he clutches at her, even as his body begins to convulse as it tries to force him to breathe, and she does not look at him because she will make it _, she will make it—_

He was pointing to a cave, just nearby. She races into it, heart hammering in her chest, and follows the path it leads her, nearly crashing into a stone wall as it suddenly veers upwards.

When she breaks water into old, yet strangely _electric_ air, Solas goes limp in her arms.

It takes her precious, desperate moments to find a ledge that’s above the water. She pulls him up onto it, and her hands tremble as she yanks at his collar, too tight around his throat, pulling his shirt open so fast that she hears buttons fling off and splash in the water behind her.

He’s not breathing. _He’s not breathing._

She tilts his head back and puts the heel of one palm on his chest, the other over it, and starts pushing her hands into his chest. Steady, and though she struggles to remember how fast she’s supposed to go she thinks it’s slower than the racing of her heart. After a while, she bends over, and exhales into his mouth—desperate, shaking, trying not to think of all the stolen kisses…

His lips are cold, and unmoving. Tears streak down her cheeks, hot and heavy and _useless_.

She should have run.

She starts pushing down on his chest again.

The third time she breathes into his mouth, his chest buckles under her weight, and she barely pulls back in time as seawater rushes out of his mouth. She helps him turn as it all rushes out of him, and he chokes on it, gasping and coughing, and she runs her hands over his back as he _breathes_ , desperate and hard, even though all she wants to do is cling to him and never let go.

He falls hard onto his back, still gasping for air as his breaths slow, and begin to even out. He reaches for her, weakly, and her hands find his face, cupping it for a moment.

 _Why didn’t you just change_ , she wants to ask. But she can hardly scream it at him as she wants to—and the light from her throat is too irregular for her signing, and his eyes are closed besides.

But the light is catching something on his skin, where she tore open his collar.

She frowns, and her hands slide down—and he does not try to stop her, as her fingers slip down his jaw, and down the sides of his neck.

Where she finds old, old scars, over the skin where his gills would form.

For a moment, she can’t breathe. Can’t believe what she feels—what she can _see_ , when the light pulses strong enough.

But then Solas takes a shuddering, broken breath, and one of his hands catches hers, and she crumples—having enough frame of mind to roll so she doesn’t crush him—and she clings to him, shaking, burying her face in his chest as they both just _breathe_. They’re surrounded on all sides by old, dead water, deeper than Aevalle has ever been—

As Solas’s breaths begin to steady out, hers only grow more frantic, and she can’t help the hot, angry tears that spill from her, only to land on Solas’s bared skin.

They’re miles underwater, and Solas can’t breathe any of it.

There’s nothing she can do to save him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warnings: explicit account of a main character drowning and having to be revived with CPR, extreme violence and death of non-main characters.**
> 
>  
> 
> So anyway this cliffhanger would probably have more impact for everyone if I hadn't [taken almost exactly a year to get from set up to execution](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6251593/chapters/22240352). But it's fine. IT'S FINE.
> 
> valyrias: nooo so what happened 2 our wet boi  
> playwithdinos: you're fired
> 
> playwithdinos: also i am very sorry to have disappointed you with no cave sex  
> playwithdinos: I mean not really  
> playwithdinos: but kind of???  
> valyrias: like.... she pulls him up to a cave... he's a wet boi..... perfect opportunity  
> (extended pause)  
> valyrias: am i still fired  
> playwithdinos: yes


	22. Blood in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the end notes for content warnings.

It takes immeasurable time for Solas to catch his breath.

His lungs ache. His muscles burn—his whole body feels like it’s been coiled too tight, for too long, and is slowly, bit by bit, unwinding, but not without resistance.

But all over every inch of him, his skin is alight with a power he hasn’t felt in… Well. Never felt it quite like _this_.

How deep have they gone? The air his battered lungs drag in tastes stale on the tongue, but he can feel currents of energy running through it as easily as they do through water. The pull he always feels on his heart is strong, steady like a second heartbeat in his chest, and as his breaths struggle to even out he feels like he might just follow it. Roll into the water and let it take him where it will.

But he does not. His breaths become less frantic, less gasping, and the tension in his body unravels, and he becomes more aware of things like hard rock underneath him. Cold air on his throat and chest, where his shirt has been ripped open. Aevalle beside him, trembling, clinging to him.

He puts the pieces together slowly, as his memories after vomiting up seawater are understandably scattered, but—her hands on his face, then his neck…

_Ah._ She knows, now.

He holds her a while longer—because there is no comfort to offer her, in this moment. Whatever fascination he might have with these depths, whatever he might discover here, he cannot leave them. Were he to try and shift his shape now, his gills would not form, and he would suffocate and die before he could swim anywhere.

A fitting end, for all he has wrought.

But after a while, the air grows too cold for comfort, and his fatalistic thoughts turn not towards himself, but the woman in his arms. Who, unlike him, has a chance of getting back to the surface alive.

“Vhenan,” he says—and winces at how it scrapes over his throat.

She clings tighter to him, but makes no move to reply.

He tries again. “ _Vhenan_. We cannot stay here.”

He feels the rush of her breath on his exposed skin; warmth over his heart for a fleeting moment, before the chill in the air returns. A prolonged exhale, slow and trembling. She hesitates a moment longer before shifting again—and surprising him as she presses a kiss to the skin above his heart.

His breath stills a moment as she lingers there. But then he feels her lashes flutter against his skin, and then another rush of breath before she pulls away.

She helps him sit up after he fails to disguise a grunt of pain, and he doesn’t have it in him to refuse the anchor of her hands on him as he tries to catch his bearings. Everywhere she touches him she leaves a hint of warmth against the cold in the air—and as he is steadied at last, she reaches up and runs her hand along his jaw, cupping his chin in her palm.

He allows himself a moment to lean into her touch—and he watches her a while, the light from her throat reflecting off the water just beside their little ledge in sporadic bursts. He catches many glimpses of too-wide eyes, the shadow of her jaw a tight black line above the green flicker of the ancient magic forced upon her.

He casts a minor light spell, and lets it hang in the air between them. He watches it light up the scatter of scales still dotting Aevalle’s form like so many freckles, and watches her pupils shrink to narrow slits as they catch the light. Still half-shifted, even above the water, and though he finds her mastery of changing her shape as fascinating as always, now it is tempered by the knowledge that he will never see for himself the limits of what she can do.

 “I doubt you can return the way we came,” he says, gently withdrawing from her touch. He undoes the last few buttons of his shirt with cold, fumbling fingers, and shrugs out of it as Aevalle shakes her head.

_I’m not leaving you_ , she signs.

He thinks of an eel, twisted by time and stale water—and all the other times her drive to protect someone or something has nearly gotten her killed—and he cannot reply. He can only smile as he places his shirt and shoes on the stone beside him.

There is enough standing room for him to step out of his trousers, as well—they are water-logged, and will only drag him down as they move forward. Before tossing them aside, however, he reaches into the pocket—and, with some relief, pulls out a leather string, on which hangs the black coral Aevalle carved for him, and a single tiger shark’s tooth.

He turns them both over in his hands for a moment—he finds the coral undamaged, still humming in some soft pitch with its charms, and the tooth much the same—before he ties the string around his neck, and lets them both rest against his bare chest.

Solas draws the light spell to the roof of the little cave they are in, and he and Aevale both lean over the edge to get a better look. The way they came stretches out on one end, and on the other side Solas can make out the shape of another passage through the hard, cold rock surrounding them, completely submerged. There’s a current moving through it, rich with an ancient power—though something about it makes a chill run up his spine.

“There is only one way forward,” he says, looking back over at Aevalle. “It is completely submerged.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath.

When she opens them again, she immediately signs, _I’ll scout ahead_.

“Absolutely not.”

She ignores him, slipping off the rock shelf and into the water.

“Aevalle,” he hisses—feeling for all the world like he should whisper down here. “We do not know what lies ahead.”

_That’s why I’m scouting_ , she replies with short, tense movements.

“Vhenan—”

_If there’s air here, there might be some further ahead._

“—it’s not safe—”

_Stay put_.

Any further protest he makes dies on his lips when she ducks below the water once again. He stands helplessly on the rock and watches the glitter of her scales slip through the opening, and disappear from his sight.

He stares after her until the last ripple created by her passing has faded away, and the surface of the water is utterly still. And then he stares a little longer, as his frustration mounts—but she does not immediately turn back. He lets out a huff, and runs a hand over his neck, and the uneven scars there—and then just staring becomes impossible, and his knees begin to shake as his body reminds him how close to death he just came, so he sits on the ledge, scowling down at the water, as if that will somehow convey his frustration to the woman he loves.

His brow hurts from all his glowering by the time she resurfaces—but the lecture he’s been planning dies on his lips when he sees a smear of blood across hers.

“You’re bleeding!” he says, leaning forward to heal it.

She waves him off before he can. _It’s just a scratch, Solas. Save your strength._

He lets out a sharp breath—but she is right. It is, on further examination, a minor scrape, and will heal on its own without his intervention. So instead he leans back, his hands resting on his knees once more, and finds himself frowning down at her.

_How long does your air spell last?_

“How did that happen?” he asks instead of answering her, gesturing to the cut on her lip.

She works her jaw back and forth. _Answer my question._

“Answer mine,” he snaps. “You can’t just—swim off without me, without _discussing_ it with me—”

_I told you what I was doing!_

“And I had to sit here and wonder if you were off getting yourself killed!”

_But I didn’t and I’m fine—_

“Were you fine when the Grey Wardens thought you were a demon and were going to kill you? When a giant eel dragged you under the water? When a diseased dragon nearly tore you in two?”

She starts to sign, but her hands shake and she has to stop—she clenches them, closes her eyes, and takes a few deep breaths, and Solas knows her well enough now that he waits. He holds his tongue and waits for her to breathe, to collect her thoughts and steady her hands.

_I had to clear the way,_ she signs, her motions deliberately slowed. Her hands still tremble a little. _There were some rocks—I almost didn’t move out of the way in time when one of them fell._

He sighs, and runs his hand over his head. “Ten minutes,” he tells her, taking her cue and letting the argument simmer. “After that I need more air to replenish it.”

She tries to smile a little, but it falters before it ever really starts. _There’s a way through,_ she signs. _Opens up into another cavern—and there’s air. We’ll have to swim fast, though._

He allows a crooked half-smile in return. He almost offers her some assurance— _I promise that I am still a fine swimmer_ —and even opens his mouth, but something in her expression makes him pause. Something about the set of her jaw, the thin line of her lips, and how wide her eyes are as she stares up at him—he’s seen that look before, though he can’t quite place it.

“Of course,” is all he says before he slips into the water.

She turns almost immediately to lead the way—but she pauses when Solas reaches out and grabs her hand.

She looks back at him, a frown creasing her brow and her head tilted slightly in question—but he only tries to smile again, and squeezes her hand a little.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he tells her.

The hard lines of her expression crack, and her lips tremble—and for a moment, he sees the absolute terror she is trying so hard to contain. He tugs her to him, and she folds into his embrace, her tail fins brushing against his bare feet, her scales smooth on his skin as she tucks her face into the crook of his neck and takes a deep, steadying breath.

She rests one palm over his heart—and it races a little in response.

Aevalle leads him through the tunnel, one hand on her spear and the other clasping his tightly. His light spell illuminates their way, distorted through the bubble of air keeping him alive. He can see most of his surroundings—a dark, slick stone, eerily void of life, closing in on them with every kick of Aevalle’s tail.

The water surrounding him, however…

It feels almost like being in the stale, stagnant water trapped under Seahold—or at least, the sense of _wrongness_ is the same. But where that water had been dead, lifeless, what little power remained in it twisted by time and isolation, here the ambling current is slow, but alive. Rich with the kind of dread that makes his skin crawl—the sensation of being watched, from every angle, though there is nothing around.

His skin begins to itch—and he has a close his eyes a moment, to keep old instincts at bay. As the itch slowly feels more like a burn, the longer he is submerged, the thinner the air becomes around his head—as his body half-remembers what it should do, to pass through water easier. Faster.

The scars on either side of his neck, however, do not react to the water around him. They only feel colder, the further they swim.

Eventually she leads him up, and he breaks into air—old and strange, yes, but air he can breathe. There is no ledge here, only rocks that jut out from the wall at odd angles and cast strange shadows on the water’s surface. He slings one arm around one as he catches his breath and steadies himself, and Aevalle runs a hand up and down his back.

“I’m fine,” he assures her.

The concerned lines on her face do not ease. _You’re lying,_ she accuses.

He allows himself a small, frustrated huff of breath. “It’s not an easy spell to maintain,” he admits after a moment. And as she keeps frowning at him, pressing closer to him, he adds very softly, “And it is… difficult not to change shape.”

Her eyes flick down to his neck once, then back up to his face.

“Old instincts,” he says. “Hard to let go of.”

She cups his face in her hand, and bites her lip.

“Where do we go from here?” he asks.

She makes a face, but swims far enough away for him to move the light spell through the water below them, illuminating the cavern walls.

There are two separate openings in the hard, cold rock surrounding them. He can feel a current moving through both—and though ancient power moves through it, something about it makes a chill run up Solas’s spine.

_Which way?_ Aevalle signs when he looks up at her again.

“I am not certain,” he answers.

_I’ll scout them both_ , she replies, but Solas grabs her arm as she turns to go.

“Wait,” he pleads.

She makes a face at him, and he lets her go so she can sign, _Do you see any other way out of this?_

“For me, I see _no_ way out of this. Aevalle—” He reaches forward and grasps her shoulder. “Aevalle, I fear there is something down here, something that will discover us eventually, and I need you to promise me that if you find a way forward that I cannot follow, _you must take it_.”

Her eyes widen, and she moves her hands to respond—

“Ah,” comes a voice from the very stones around them, “I was wondering when you would acknowledge my presence.”

Aevalle whirls, raising her spear and putting Solas at her back in the same motion.

“Such ferocity,” the voice continues—its tone low, rasping as if spoken through a wounded throat. It sounds familiar in a way that makes a chill run up Solas’s spine, though he struggles to remember where he has heard it. “How quickly you fling yourself into danger every time you’re frightened, little siren. Always trying to make up for when you didn’t.”

She stiffens, and Solas sees her grip turn white-knuckled on her spear.

“What manner of spirit are you?” Solas asks, casting his gaze at the ceiling above them, searching for any sign of movement.

The spirit _tsks_. “Such manners,” it drolls, “sneaking through my domain unannounced, and then making demands of me. I suppose I can only expect so much from a… _humble artist_ , is it?”

“You are hardly a spirit of hospitality,” Solas replies, cool and even, “or you would not hide yourself so far from polite society. Instead you choose the Grey Wardens—what drew you here? Their power? Their arrogance?”

He thinks he sees the shadows shift in the water to their right, but when he looks directly at it, nothing seems to have changed. “You expect me to be Pride? Or Rage? Such base urges, such paltry drives. I have no interest in them.”

“You do not seem to be in a rush to clarify,” Solas muses, “and you seem to be amused by my guesses—you are secretive in nature, then. And what secrets in particular you are drawn to, I imagine, are less savory than childhood crushes or money changing hands under a table.”

The surface of the water ripples, about five feet in front of them—Aevalle points her spear at it, but there is nothing there. The ripples spread from the center until they fade away, and the surface of the water is still once again.

“The kind of secrets that keep you up at night,” the spirit answers, “the kind that cause you to wake, screaming, but stay your tongue when you look for comfort. The kind that sit with you, and fester while your hands tremble. Like the memory of dark, flooded tunnels, and blood in the water.”

Aevalle thrusts her spear at nothing—Solas doesn’t even see a shadow—and the spirit laughs in reply, ripples spreading from three points on the water’s surface without anything touching them.

The laugh fades as the water’s surface stills once more, and Solas’s ears ring in the sudden silence.

“We need to keep moving,” he says, and he does not fight the urge to keep his voice low even though he knows it’s pointless.  

She glances back at him uneasily. But after a moment, she turns long enough to sign with one hand—sticking out a pinky finger and thumb, and then thrusting the hand forward and down—before she slips back under the water again.

Solas exhales, and though he doesn’t like it he waits.

This time, however, he does not wait alone.

“ _Harellan_ ,” the spirit calls, after some time has passed. “How many times have you watched her swim away, now? Again and again, she slips out of your grasp—just like all the other beautiful things you’ve ever tried to save.”

“ _Banal nadas_ ,” is his tight-lipped reply.

He hears a low, rasping laugh, just over his shoulder. He does not turn—he knows that there is nothing there, even though the skin on the back of his neck rises and a chill runs up his spine.

“Tell me,” it whispers, a hot breath rushing over the tip of his ear, “how long does she have until the power in her throat kills her?”

His jaw clenches, but he does not respond.

“Not that you’ll live long enough to find out,” it amends.

He can’t tell how long he waits in silence for Aevalle to return—counting his breaths is mind-numbing, but he lacks the focus to do that _and_ resist every instinct he has to change shape. He bides his time by closing his eyes, stretching his senses out into the water surrounding him, and trying—and failing—to find a current that will lead them out of here.

Aevalle emerges once again—so silently that he would miss it, had it not been for the flicker of power in her throat—and looks immensely relieved to find him where she left him, unharmed.

_Okay?_ she signs, one-handed, unwilling to put away her spear for even a moment.

“It has not said anything of which I was not already aware,” he replies. That answer only makes her brow furrow further, so he adds, “I am _fine_ , vhenan.”

She studies him a moment longer, and bites her lip before nodding. She gestures to the passage she scouted before signing and shaking her head _no_ , and then reaching for his hand.

He takes it, and if he clings a little too tightly to her she does not seem to mind.

This next passage is somehow darker and colder than the last—longer too, it seems. She does not let him go, and he finds himself immensely grateful for the iron grip of her hand on his. Solas struggles to keep air around him while he breathes, while they move, and tries to ignore the current all around him as Aevalle swims. Her tail fins caress his skin with every kick of her tail, and something else moves _through_ him as they whip through the water at what is probably an unwise, but wholly necessary, pace.

It’s the pull he feels, and ignores, with every crashing wave. The pull that made him turn his back from the ocean and live for years away from its shores, once as welcome in his chest as the beating of his heart.

It is so, so difficult not to answer it.

Aevalle comes to an abrupt stop, swimming suddenly upward and circling above, shifting her grip on him as he flails and slows his speed before she yanks his arm, hard, and their movement completely stills. Solas focuses a little more on his light spell, and it brightens—enough that he can see a wall directly ahead of them, collapsed stones all piled on top of each other.

She starts to tug him backwards, but Solas shakes his head. He can still feel current moving through it, slow draining that it is. She bites her lip, but he loosens his grip on her hand until she lets him go, taking her spear up with both hands and pointing it at the wall as she watches.

He lets the light spell fade—he does not have the focus to maintain it _and_ still have air to breathe—and they are plunged into near-darkness, punctuated by the erratic flicker of green from Aevalle’s throat. He raises his hands in front of him, and starts to gather the currents that have stalled here—he can feel them so strongly that he almost swears he sees them, twisted and strange and _wrong_ but strong, rich with the power that pools at the deepest part of the ocean.

He takes a breath of air—and his skin _burns_ , alight all over but for the scars on his neck. Cold, dead skin that does not react to the water surrounding him.

He thrusts his hands forward, and a lance of ice spears the rocks ahead—and they burst apart, and the water that has built up around them surges forward.

Solas is swept up in the current—he thinks he feels Aevalle’s fingers brush his arm, but he is torn from her too quickly to catch her grip. He is sent spinning through the rushing water, currents whirling around him even as he tries to reach for them, to calm them long enough for him to slow down, to get his bearings—

He crashes into a hard, rock wall—cracking his head so hard that his vision spins for a moment, and the pain that shoots across his skull nearly causes him to drop the air spell. Before he can recover, or even _think_ to move, the current swells, doubles in strength—and pins him to the wall.

His head still spinning, his heart pounding, he manages to take one lung-burning breath before the force of the water shatters his spell.

Water rushes over his face and nearly right up his nostrils—his whole face lights up with an agonizing pain from the sudden change in pressure, and it takes immense control to keep himself from crying out.

Just as he starts to reach for his own reservoir of power, to attempt to redirect the current, he feels something grab him.

His nails dig into the wall—hard, bare of any trace of life—but the hand that grips him has smooth scales, and there is the flutter of fins on his skin as they are whipped about by the current pinning him. Aevalle shields him with her body, as if her small form can fight the fury of the ocean’s depths.

It is the reprieve he needs to focus—and as he pulls his hand from the wall, muscles burning with the effort, the current assailing them is blown back. The vacuum nearly sucks him clean off the wall—and without skipping a beat, Aevalle is pulling him up—swimming dizzyingly fast, as his lungs burn and his ears ring—

They burst from the water, and Solas’s harrowed, desperate gasps for air echo back at him.

He coughs, curses, and then coughs again—Aevalle shakes as she holds him, her nails digging into his back, and her breaths tremble as they rush over his cold skin.

“I’m—” he tries to say, but coughs again; his lungs too desperate for air to allow him to speak.

That rasping voice rises, as if from the water around them, “Is that the best you have to offer me, Solas? I was worried there for a moment that my fun would be over so soon.”

There is just enough light for Solas to make out Aevale raising her spear into the air, threateningly.

The spirit laughs in reply. “How very _brave_ of you, little siren. You and your stick against the void.”

Aevalle clings tighter to him with one arm, and raises her middle finger on her hand holding the spear.

As Solas’s breath returns to him, he feels that he can reach out further—and he has the sense of a vast expanse of air above them, an even deeper well of water below them, and something very large moving around them, somehow both above and below.

“I see that I’ve managed to get under your skin, little siren,” it muses. “Though I wonder—why don’t you simply tell me to go away? I’d listen if you asked nicely enough.”

She blows a frustrated air of breath through her nose.

It hums thoughtfully. “A shame. There hasn’t been a voice like yours in the world for ages—not since a thief from Kirkwall, who took something he didn’t understand from the flooded halls below the Winter Palace. And he would never have a fraction of what’s been sewn into your flesh.”

There is enough light reflecting off the water around them for Solas to see Aevalle’s features twist in confusion.

“Oh how _frightened_ he was, of the things he’d done finding you. But it wasn’t his past that killed him. Would you like to know, little siren, whether your father drowned or bled out in the water?”

There is a low rumble, almost like a growl, somewhere below them. Solas and Aevalle look down at the same time, but beyond Aevalle’s tail fins there is only a vast black depth.

“But perhaps,” the spirit says, its voice pitching low, “it is better to _show_ you.”

Solas feels a faint rush of water coming from far below him—something moving unnaturally fast, somewhere in the vast depths below them.

Then that something lets out a scream.

The distance between them muffles its piercing qualities to a dull, high pitch—warped and muffled by the water between them, Solas cannot distinguish it from the cries of any number of spirits or underwater creatures.

Aevalle, however, goes completely still for half a heartbeat. Her nails scrape over his back as she freezes in place.

Then without warning, she grabs his arm and starts swimming.

He’s so surprised that he nearly swallows a mouthful of water—but he recovers quickly enough, and she only swims along the surface, heading in a seemingly random direction, skirting along the edge of the wall that Solas was pinned to.

Something screams again—significantly closer this time.

Solas closes his eyes, and casts his awareness out—behind them and below them, four large shapes are approaching at a rapid speed. His magic has a difficult time determining their shape—or rather, finds that their shape is shifting as quickly as the currents they are swimming in. Spirits, then—but not ones with good intent.

Instead he focuses his attention forward—and he feels through the currents moving below them, until he finds one that leads away from this chamber, into another passageway.

He casts the air spell once more, and pulls Aevalle’s hand—directing her where to go.

She changes course without hesitation—diving with one great kick, pulling him under at a dizzying speed. Once underwater, he sends a glance backwards and sees a number of points of pale green light, flickering in and out, growing steadily closer.

The closer they draw, the more they mimic the demon of Pride his friend became—green light shifting to a blue crackle, and their cries become low, warbled laughter.

Their forms are mere illusions, he knows—but that makes them no less unsettling.

He loses sight of them as Aevalle pulls him into the tunnel.

She barrels forward at a reckless speed—so quickly they nearly collide with a wall when the tunnel veers sharply upward. She pulls up in time, though Solas has to brace himself with one hand on the hard stone surface as his momentum carries him forward, before following her up. He throws his hand forward, curling his wrist and splaying his fingers, and a ball of light bursts into the water ahead of her.

Just in time to illuminate a demon, its jaws unhinged to expose too many long, curving teeth, and a mouth large enough to swallow them whole.

Aevalle yanks him to the left—quick enough that the creature lunges forward into empty water, its great jaws snapping down on nothing. She thrusts her spear forward in the same movement, piercing its gills with the ironbone tip, and then ripping it back out sideways, goring a great hole open in the creature’s side.

She is moving again before it even screams. Solas watches the water behind them turn black with its blood—and as they race upward, he sees the first of their pursuers burst through the cloud with a snarl.

They round another corner—and another, veering sharply one way or the other. Upwards, always upwards, passing by a dozen intersections and choosing always the one that rises, the one that will take them closer to the surface—

From a hole in the wall below them, a demon launches itself at Aevalle’s stomach as she searches for a path upward.

Solas freezes it in place with a thought. Their light spell winks out of existence, and Aevalle swims with only the light in her throat until he can cast it again.

He hears something ahead of her scream with rage—and the water darkens with its blood, and he watches some many-limbed thing fall through the water as they rush past it, only to be buffeted out of the way by the creatures following them. Easily more than twice its size—slowed in their pursuit only by their bulk in the tunnels they race through, but still gaining on them.

Above them, Solas catches a glimpse of something reflecting the light from Aevalle’s neck—a great many somethings, like a hundred small eyes peering down at them.

He throws his arm out, and a dozen javelins of ice form, then shoot ahead of Aevalle—piercing into the flesh of some great, large thing Solas cannot see.

They hear its screams of pain well enough. Aevalle darts to another open path just fast enough to avoid large, sharp claws, which clasp only on the water just behind Solas’s heels.

The effort, however, causes Solas’s air bubble spell to falter—and then, under immense pressure of the water they race through, collapse utterly.

He manages to take a breath before it does. Aevalle glances back to see him, one hand clasped over his mouth, and her hand grips his _tighter_.

Behind them, he hears the snarling of the demons approaching them—too close now, too close by far—

Without warning, he bursts into open air. As he draws it into his lungs with great, desperate breaths, he turns below him and sends a blast of energy at the way they came. It shoots from his palm like a jet of water, colliding with the rock wall and collapsing the tunnel in on itself before they can be followed.

He hears their pursers shriek with rage, and he knows it will not hold.

Aevalle tugs at his hand, but he shakes his head and tries to steady himself enough to speak.

She draws back to him, and he blinks seawater out of his eyes until he can see her—lit only by the light of all his mistakes reflecting off the water surrounding them. Her eyes are wide, her brow furrowed, and she is gasping for breath herself.

There is enough light also for him to see the ceiling, just above their heads—and that the water level in this chamber is steadily rising.

 “Vhenan,” he manages to say, right as she drops her iron grip on him to press a trembling palm to the side of his face.

She presses her forehead to his, and he can feel her whole body shaking with exhaustion.

He closes his eyes—and he tries to ignore, for a moment, the feel of the water slowly rising above his shoulders. To focus on _her_ , the feel of her skin on his.

When she reaches down for his hand again, he says, “Vhenan, you have to leave me here.”

She inhales sharply, and recoils as if he’s burned her.

_No_ , she mouths, and then immediately snaps her mouth shut, as if she’d almost spoken out loud.

“I am only holding you back,” he tells her, reaching for her shoulders. “That rubble will not hold those demons long—I can give you the time you need to escape.”

She just shakes her head, and tries to shove his hands away from her.

“Vhenan,” he says, as the water reaches his neck, “I was never going to leave this place alive. We both knew this.”

She shakes her head again, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling down her face.

“I wish—were there any other way—” He reaches up to cup her face, and wipe her cheeks with his thumbs. “ _Ar lath ma._ Save yourself. _Please_.”

She bites her lip—and as the blood from her earlier injury smears across her teeth, something in her expression changes.

He hears a roar and a crash behind him, and the shifting of rubble.

Solas looks back, turning away from her to face the demons slowly clawing their way through the barricade—and then Aevalle grabs his shoulder and yanks him back to face her.

He opens his mouth to protest, and her lips crash into his.

He lets out a surprised breath—but she only clutches him closer. It’s hardly a romantic kiss, hardly graceful—her bottom lip slips full into his mouth, smearing the copper tang of her blood over the tip of his tongue. She kisses him _harder_ when he tries to pull back, and she must drop her spear because he feels both her hands on his neck, keeping him in place.

Her thumbs ghost over the scars on his neck, her fingers covered in calloused skin instead of scales, and he realises what she’s trying to do.

“No,” he hisses, breaking the kiss. “Aevalle—you’ll drown—”

But then his mouth is full of water, and she is pressing her forehead to his.

He tries to push her off, but she digs in her nails and clings tighter to him. Her eyes closed, holding her breath, and not budging, even as he tries to pry her fingers from him.

Completely submerged, so far below the surface and the land above, the pull he’s felt his whole life completely surrounds him. It feels like an impossibly slow and steady heartbeat, of a creature so great in size and strength that his own is fleeting, frail in comparison. As his heart races, as his lungs strain, as his skin begins to burn in answer to it—all over but the scars on his neck, cold and unfeeling.

Like he is swept up in a great, slow intake of breath, it pulls at him.

_Ma vhenan—she will drown, she will drown—_

But under that great pull—closer, smaller—he starts to feel something else. Another tide, calling to him—like the rush and retreat of a wave on a beach.

It sounds like a heartbeat. Outside him—but somewhere close.

_Ma vhenan_ , he thinks. _Ma vhenan_.

His lungs _burn_.

Beat by beat, the racing of his heart begins to slow to match it. Beat by beat, the rush of blood in his ears begins to fade away—and he hears only her heartbeat, and the rush of water moving over them.

Where she touches him, he feels unbearably hot. Her blood churns with the seawater in his mouth and it is _warm_ , growing warmer with each beat of their hearts, matched in tempo, as they float there—utterly suspended, completely oblivious to everything else around them.

Just his heart, and the ocean—and the heat from her palms slowly spreading through the cold scar tissue on either side of his neck.

And between one heartbeat and the next, it’s like something in him unravels. Some hesitation he forgot he had, some small thing holding him back—there one moment, and gone the next. It does not feel like any great epiphany; it feels like a small release. Like the first breath of salt air, after years spent inland.

He opens his eyes—and Aevalle pulls back, scales once again dotting her face like so many freckles, and she smiles at him.

He lets out the breath he was holding—and for the first time in countless years, water rushes over his gills.

All at once, Aevalle goes limp in the water, and the rock barricade below them is blown outward.

Solas sheds what is left of his clothing, and in a heartbeat his shape is changed—and the sensation of his legs fusing together is a little dizzying, after going so long without it. But then his tail curls, and he blinks and his vision shifts, catching more light than before. And his whole body feels light, fluid, so full with life and power in a way he’d nearly forgotten, it’s been so long.

In one motion he catches Aevalle with one arm—she is fully shifted and _breathing_ , but weakened—and turns, extending his open palm to the creatures racing toward them.

The first is impaled by three spears of ice, and is kicked back with such force that it collides with the other two, its momentum pinning them against the stone. The water immediately surrounding them begins to boil, and the creatures begin to writhe and scream—and they frantically change their shapes to try and escape, but the ice spears remain, unaffected by the heat.

Solas lingers only long enough to snatch up Aevalle’s spear, and then to raise its tip toward the ceiling.

The ironbone spearhead makes an _excellent_ focus, even though that was not its makers’ design when they carved it.

He blasts a hole in the cave’s ceiling, and races through one long, spiralling tunnel—and he cannot keep a grin off his face, for the sheer _delight_ of it, water rushing through him and past his fins as he moves through it with all the ease of one born to it.

Every wall he comes across, he breaks apart with his magic—which comes _so easily_ , in this form, at such a depth—until finally he breaks into open ocean, right into a strong current and a school of glittering fish that scatter at his arrival.

He grins at them—nearly chases them, for the delight of it, but his _vhenan_ kicks her tail weakly, slipping out of his grasp as she starts to ascend.

But she takes his hand, as she slips out of his arm—and he looks up at her, her fins and hair flowing in the current around them, and he sees exhaustion written in every line of her body, every weak movement of her tail.

He squeezes her hand a little.

“Allow me, _vhenan_ ,” he says—and his voice carries through the water with more magic than sound.

She looks back down at him, her eyes wide—ah. He supposes _that_ is not something the Dalish have remembered how to do.

But he can only smile at her—and then with a kick of his tail, he starts to pull her gently towards the surface.

It is almost a shame to break to open air—to a clear night sky, the full moon shining high above them. There is a sliver of sunrise to the east—just a lightening of the horizon, nothing more—and a series of small islands scattered along it. Welcoming enough, Solas thinks, as Aevalle slumps against him.

They stumble to a rocky beach, and Solas feels a pang of regret at leaving the ocean so soon—but Aevalle collapses the moment she tries to stand on her legs, and it seems only natural to sweep her up in his arms. To press her skin and her hunting leathers up against his bare chest, and to let her head come to rest on his shoulder.

There is a cave only a few steps up the beach—and it is small and damp, but there is soft moss inside, and it is there that he lays her down. As his knees rest on the ground, he feels his own exhaustion catching up with him, in spite of the racing of his heart.

He stares down at her, and takes a moment to gently brush her wet hair away from her face. Just catching his breath, and revelling that they are _alive._

They should have died down there.

And yet…

“Vhenan _,”_ he says, softly, as if that one word can contain all the wonder he feels in this moment.

She reaches up and presses one shaking palm to rest over his heart.

He feels an incredulous grin spreading over his whole face—and her hand moves to tangle her fingers around the cord of his necklace, and he can only shake his head and laugh as she pulls him down next to her.

Solas wraps his arms around her, buries his face in her soaking wet hair, and she presses her face into his neck and takes a deep, steadying breath. She starts to cry—and he holds her tighter, while she clings to him, until her sobs fade off, and her breaths even out as she falls asleep.

He stays awake a little longer—marvelling at just the feel of her breathing against him as his eyelids begin to flutter shut, and his exhaustion begins to win out over the wonder of what has passed this evening. Matching her breath for breath, in the rise and fall of their chests in tandem with the waves outside their cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings: This chapter heavily features drowning related content.**
> 
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> 
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> 
> Happy Dread Shark everyone!
> 
> I just want to say before you all yell at me in the comments that I planned chapter this before the Shape of Water came out, but I think while it was in production, so obviously Guillermo del Toro and I just have a hivemind. I'm okay with this.
> 
> cedarmoons: WHAT DOES THIS MEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDD  
> playwithdinos: What do you mean I can't vague my way through life how dare you
> 
> cedarmoons: i just put the back of my hand on my forehead like a feckin swoonin maiden.... the imagery...... the PULP COVER  
> playwithdinos: This is absolutely a pulp cover scene


	23. Almost Wild

Solas wakes to the gentle rocking of a boat in the ocean, to the musk of soft furs surrounding him, and the warmth of Aevalle at his side.

He opens his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly. They are in a small boat—an aravel, with the worn red sailcloth rigged overhead. The light filtering through it is pleasantly warm, though not as warm as the woman at his side. He watches as her eyes flutter open, admires the way they catch the light, the confused furrow of her brow as she looks around—and then he admires a little further the sleepy smile she greets him with.

She shifts, her bare legs gliding along his, and one of her hands curls where it rests over his heart.

_I could get used to this dream_ , he thinks, and as she rolls onto her back he rolls with her, above her, and bends down to kiss her.

His lips glide over hers, and she is _warm_ , and _safe_ , and—

Then someone lifts the sail, and light floods the interior of the aravel.

“ _Eeeeeeew,_ ” a child’s voice shrieks—and Solas only catches the silhouette of a head in the sudden brightness, before the child drops the sailcloth. “Mamae, they’re awake and they’re being _gross_!”

Solas blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust once again to the shade—and as he does he hears a splash, then the sound of someone swimming away and a few playful halla calls. And after that, the laughter of people farther away.

Under the ruckus, he can hear a familiar voice scold, “Melena, our guests need _rest_.”

When Solas looks back down at Aevalle, she is nearly doubled over laughing, one hand over her mouth.

_First lesson on sleeping in an aravel,_ she signs, smiling slyly up at him. _There’s always someone else around._

He can only offer an embarrassed chuckle in reply.

_Come on,_ she signs, _there should be some clothes in here somewhere._

There are some clothes neatly folded in a small, waterproof box—Aevalle’s sealskin hunting gear, freshly cleaned, legwraps for Solas, and well-worn factory made clothing for them both. Aevalle’s shirt is a few sizes too big; Solas’s breeches are both too short _and_ too tight, and his shirt has been mended with a mismatched thread and is missing its top three buttons, but he supposes they are better than nothing at all.

He finds himself trying to pull the collar higher around his neck than it will go, his fingers brushing over familiar, rough scars. He cannot place it, but they feel… different, now. They do not pull so much at his skin when he turns his head, anymore.

Aevalle catches him doing it as she’s tying her legwraps—and her expression grows a little sombre for a moment, before she shakes her head with a smile. Without warning, she leans forward—catching his hands in hers, and twining her fingers around his as she pulls his hands away from his throat.

She kisses him. Quick, but no less passionate for its brevity—dragging her lips against his as she pulls away.

He leans forward and steals one more kiss—slightly longer, a little deeper—before letting her drop his hands.

_Don’t worry_ , she signs. _We’re among friends._

“You know this because?” he asks, tucking his shirt into his breeches—a task made difficult by having to kneel, his head pressing against the sailcloth overhead.

She just looks more amused. _Did you really sleep through all that?_

“All what?” he asks, but it only makes her laugh a little more—she actually _snorts_ , a tiny little sound that makes her nose wrinkle delightfully. “Vhenan—all _what_?”

But she does not answer him—instead she busies herself with untying the sail from the boat, and Solas helps her roll it up and secure it, before sitting up straight and looking around him.

They are floating in a sheltered bay, surrounded by a small number of aravels, mostly the large ones he knows are used by a whole family, with the sleek forms of halla darting among them, glinting white in the morning sun. He can see in the distance red sails, pinpricks on the horizon, and assumes the smaller ones aside from theirs are all currently being used for fishing.

On the beach it seems like half the clan remains—elderly, warriors to protect them, and a scattering of adults and all the small children. He watches a familiar young girl run out of the water to a man with his arms crossed, a scattering of bright red scales catching the light as she moves. Conversation on the beach is loud enough that Solas cannot make out what he says to her, but he can see the man’s high collar and remembers his name—Hawen.

“How…?” he begins to ask, turning to Aevalle—but she only shakes her head as she pulls up the anchor, pressing her lips together. “What’s so funny?”

_How often is there something you don’t know, Solas?_ she wonders when the anchor is on board—and he’s not sure if it’s just his imagination, but she seems to be straightening her spine less than normal as she signs his name. _Let me enjoy it for a little while._

He sighs—and even to his own ears it sounds far more fond than annoyed—and then with a gesture, brings a current to life around their aravel and guides it to shore.

One of the warriors helps Solas pull the boat onto the sand, while Aevalle stays seated. “A word of advice there, _hahren,_ ” she teases. “If you’re going to… _rock the aravel_ , as it were, you should probably do it somewhere the whole clan can’t see.”

Solas clears his throat—but before he can reply, the warrior lets out a bark of a laugh.

“Looks less like a _hahren_ and more like a _da’len_ when he blushes, doesn’t he _lethallan_?” she asks over her shoulder at Aevalle.

Aevalle, for her part, seems to be very interested in how tight Solas’s pants are, and does not reply.

When she does try to stand, however, her legs wobble, and then her knees give out on her.

Solas catches her—and she stubbornly tries to wave him off, but Solas keeps one hand on her back as he helps her out of the boat, and then helps her walk a few steps on the pebble beach while pointedly ignoring her embarrassed waving. He lets her try to stand—but as she teeters dangerously, he slings one arm about her waist and holds her.

She gives up with a frustrated huff—but she leans against him all the same.

“You should still be resting,” Solas tells her.

She scoffs.

“He is right, _da’len_.”

Solas looks up once again, and sees the Keeper approaching them. He stands tall, and though everyone around them seems relaxed, his expression is one of worry as he looks down at Aevalle. “Whatever trials you have gone through, it is clear that you have not recovered.”

_I’m fine_ , she starts to sign, _really._

Hawen frowns down at her a moment longer, and then his face slowly softens as he begins to smile. “ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, “you just looked so much like your mother, there. Come,” he says, clasping his hands together, “you’ve both been asleep for two days—you must be hungry.”

Solas finds himself ushered thoroughly towards a dying fire—which is quickly fed back to a roaring flame, while he helps Aevalle get seated on a large driftwood log. The moment he is sitting beside her, he finds himself swarmed by children—Melena first among them, who gives him a gap-toothed grin before turning to Aevalle and signing, _Hello,_ as enthusiastically as she can.

Aevalle looks surprised for a moment—and though her exhaustion and her frustration with it is obvious, a smile rapidly spreads across her face. _Hello,_ she replies, and then with slow and broad gestures she adds, _I have missed you, little one._

Melena falters a little, frowning slightly. She glances over at Solas uncertainly.

“One more time, _vhenan_ ,” Solas says—and the endearment slips from his lips as easily as her name.

Aevalle’s eyes brighten, and she looks back up at him with such fondness it makes his heart beat a little faster in reply.

“I have missed you, little one,” Solas interprets, sign by sign, as Aevalle repeats herself for Melena.

Melena watches her every gesture with intense focus, before repeating it back to them; a little shaky, perhaps, but an excellent imitation.

“Well done,” he informs her.

She beams up at them.

The other children rush them, then, and Solas finds he must split his attention.

“The hunters said they found you _naked_ ,” a little boy exclaims. “Why were you _naked_? Don’t you have any clothes?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like clothes,” a girl says. “My little brother didn’t like clothes till he was two!”

“No I—Shut _up_!”

“How come you can move an aravel without sails? Can you do _magic_ , like the Keeper? Are you a Keeper?”

“I found a rock! It’s really pretty! Wanna see?”

“ _Da’vhen_ ,” the Keeper scolds, as the children start shouting over one another, “give our guests some space!”

With some cajoling, they are shooed away—and Solas can see that water is being boiled over a fire, and someone is pulling a chipped porcelain tea set out of a box while someone else shoves oysters into the hot coals. An elderly woman presses a porcelain plate of food into his hands—generous portions of dried seal meat and smoked salmon, some broken tea biscuits and at least two handfuls of fresh blueberries.

At his side, Aevalle’s eyes widen at the offered spread.

“There will be something fresher when the hunters return,” the woman offers, apologetic.

But Aevalle only picks up one sliver of salmon as gingerly as one might fine glassware—and she savours it as most would fine wine, closing her eyes as she takes her first bite.

For his part, Solas tries the blueberries first—and finds them at perfect ripeness, sweet with just a hint of tartness in his mouth.

He feels utterly ravenous, after the first bite—he barely manages to thank the old woman for the food before devouring everything on his plate. The jerky is tough, the salmon smoked too strongly for his palate, and the biscuits overly stale, but he can’t bring himself to care as he somehow resists the urge to lick his plate clean. His fingers however, covered in a burst blueberry’s juice, do not escape this treatment—and his middle finger is in his mouth when Aevalle finally looks over at him, herself only a few pieces of salmon shy of a full plate.

She smiles at him, and balances her plate on her lap to sign, _Your tongue is purple._

Solas manages an embarrassed laugh.

It doesn’t take long for someone to take his plate away, then fill it with piping hot roasted oysters. He devours those too—much to the obvious delight of the people assembled, as his plate is immediately filled once again and the children scatter to go find more food.

“Must be how he got such broad shoulders,” someone jokes.

Aevalle, for her part, savours every single bite of her food. He watches her a while, worried for a moment that she’s not eating—but she is smiling, a wistful expression on her face as she watches him eat, or the children running around in the bushes up the beach. Sometimes she seems to just be looking around at the camp, at the fire or the people or the things they carry, and she blinks a little quickly, her eyes gleaming a little.

The second time she does that, Solas takes her hand in his. She pauses, as if surprised, but a moment later she squeezes his hand in return.

“We found you two days ago,” Hawen explains, after Aevalle has eaten her fill and the fire has been put out. Solas has politely taken his cup of tea, and holds it in his hands, but has not even sipped it. The smell alone is enough to put him off—too earthy by far—but Aevalle is on her second cup already, and is listening to Hawen intently as he speaks. “I do not know how much you remember, _da’len_ , you seemed…” He glances, briefly, at Solas’s neck. “You were unwell. Solas, I don’t believe you woke at all.”

Aevalle looks a little smug, and Solas very nearly rolls his eyes. “Apparently I did not.”

Hawen looks between them, frowning curiously at Aevalle’s expression, but apparently decides not to ask about it. “Some of the hunters found you in a cave on one of the islets we sometimes leave supplies—we had hoped another clan passing through might have left us some information on Orlesian ship movement in the area, but we found you instead. That is all I know of your situation—Aevalle was too ill to explain how you got there or why.”

“Where are we now?” Solas asks.

“South of Val Firmin,” he answers. “Significantly south—we are well away from the worst of the civil war, thankfully. We had not planned to linger so long, and had intended on moving further, but there is good lumber here for aravels, and a few of the ones we use for hunting are in poor repair. We have needed to build new ones for years.”

Aevalle puts down her cup. _Have you contacted the Inquisition and told them where we are?_

He smiles a little. “I… was not certain how you wound up looking as though you had been pulled from the Deep itself. So I decided not to contact them. We have not traded with any ships since finding you, Inquisition or not, and have not visited any human settlements. Currently, no one outside the clan knows you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Solas says. “May we ask for your discretion further, at least until Aevalle is feeling better?”

Hawen’s brows furrow. “You ask that as if I would hand over my niece against her will.”

Solas blinks. He looks down at Aevalle, who tilts her head at him and his obvious confusion.

_I guess that never came up_ , she signs. _He’s my mother’s cousin._

Solas clears his throat, and can feel the tips of his ears growing warm. “I suppose that simplifies matters,” he says, as evenly as he can manage.

“Don’t worry,” Hawen replies, “I’m not going to drill you on your intentions with my niece. Though I am tempted to ask how old you are.”

Aevalle tries to look stern, but her lips are twitching upwards in amusement. She signs something Solas hadn’t known, their last visit, and he had assumed it to be the Keeper’s name—but that he now knows to mean, _Uncle._

“In any case,” the Keeper continues, “we will be staying here for two more weeks, yet. The aravel you woke in is yours to use—and at the end of that time, should you wish to return to the Inquisition, you may use it on your journey. But until then, you are our guests. If there is anything at all we can do for you, all you have to do is ask.”

At first, Solas is uncertain about the prospect of living with a Dalish clan for two weeks. His previous interactions with the Dalish were… well. They did not end on the best of terms.

But he has little choice—even if they were inclined to take the offered aravel and leave, Aevalle can hardly stand, let alone sail on the open sea.

In truth, they do little at all that first day. Solas finds quite a few people determined to _feed him_ , for reasons he doesn’t quite understand but seem to amuse Aevalle greatly. Young Melena is at Aevalle’s side constantly, in spite of her mother’s attempts to peel her away, and she pesters Solas to interpret every single thing she signs, and then to teach her how to repeat it.

“Keeper’s been teaching me when he has time,” she informs them, chest swelling with pride, “and he says I’m _exemplary._ ”

“That you are,” Solas agrees, signing as he speaks.

By late afternoon, the novelty of being among her people again seems to have worn off, and Aevalle is clearly frustrated and bored. She tries to stand and walk about the camp on her own, and only on her third attempt does she allows Solas to support her as she does, though it obviously grates on her.

She goes to inspect the progress with the aravels, and the clan’s lead crafter shoos her away, insisting that she get some rest. And then she drags Solas to where the warriors are practicing, swords gleaming in the light, but Solas does not even let her ask to spar.

“You can hardly _stand_ ,” he tells her, leading her away. “You will only hurt yourself.”

She glares up at him.

“I am not wrong,” he insists. He scans the camp one more time, until he sees Melena being dragged away by her mother yet again.

Her mother sits her down with a group of children, who are dutifully mending nets under the tutelage of an old woman.

He glances back at Aevalle—who has followed his gaze, and curls her lip with distaste.

She actually refuses to move with him—and he thinks she might topple right forward, in her stubbornness.

“Vhenan,” he chides. “If you want to do something, you have to be sitting down for it.”

She rolls her eyes, but finally relents with a heavy sigh.

Solas sits her down among the children—and then takes the last spot immediately to the left of the elder, who hums thoughtfully but does not look up as he does.

Her hair is completely white, the skin of her face heavy with wrinkles, and her eyes blinded by cataracts.

“I do not recognise that gait,” she says, her voice old and rough. “You must be this Solas everyone is talking about.”

He takes up two ends of the fine rope in his hands. “I am. We have not been introduced.”

She inclines her head. “I am Yvena. It is not customary for visitors to help weave fishing nets—especially not those from the cities.”

“I am from a village,” he corrects, watching her hands a moment. Her knuckles are swollen, and her hands tremble as she moves, but though he suspects the movement of her hands is slower and they used to be, her knots are deft and secure, and he can follow her movements easily enough. He finds his hands mimicking her before he’s even aware of it, though slower and less certain.

“Oh?” she wonders, inclining her head. “And where is this village, pray tell?”

“The north,” he answers.

“Was there much fishing there?”

His brows furrow. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve clearly never woven a net before,” she tells him, and reaches over to pull on his string and undo the three knots he had just tied. “Again, _da’len_.”

The children giggle. A few of them whisper to one another, trying to hide their grins.

“I am _blind_ ,” Yvena scolds, “not deaf, and you don’t mend nets with your tongues, _da’vhen._ And girl—are you going to sit there while your city boy ruins this net, or will you show him how it’s done?”

Aevalle huffs only once, but there is amusement in her features instead of annoyance as she finally picks up the ends of rope nearest her, and starts to show Solas how to weave.

 

There’s something that’s changed in Solas, Aevalle thinks.

Well. Other than the obvious.

She can’t say exactly what it is. Maybe it’s all tied in with what she did, down in the Deep—and she’s honestly not even sure what she did. Maybe it’s the setting, or the clothes, or…

After only a few days with the clan, his freckles darken and stand out delightfully against his skin. Another button comes off the top of his threadbare shirt, and he is doomed to wander around for nearly a day looking like an illustration in one of those books Cassandra’s always pretending she’s not reading. Aevalle is fully aware that there are buttons and thread aplenty lying around the clan, but does not actually _tell_ him this until that evening.

He blushes considerably as he watches her pull out a box with a fishbone needle, thread, and the mismatched buttons in question. “Are there looser breeches lying around as well?”

_Tragically,_ she signs after he takes the box, _no._

She is frustrated by the speed of her own recovery—it hardly seems fair that Solas is practically running around with _more_ energy than she’s ever seen him have while she’s still leaning on him for support after two days. But the clan takes pity on her and gives her things to do that are not as mind-numbing as weaving fishing nets; in return for new leather for the grip of her spear, she spends an afternoon sharpening and cleaning and re-gripping all the fishing equipment in the clan, even though most of it honestly does not need it. When that is done, she makes some rough wooden play spears for the children, who all delight in pretending to be her, fighting off Templars.

_I’ve never fought a Templar in my life_ , she muses, watching them.

“They worry about Templars even here?” Solas wonders.

_We worry about everything_ , she tells him. _Templars, Orlesian Chevaliers, Tevinter slavers… sometimes Templars have been known to take mage children from a clan, if they decide we have too many._

At that point, the children seem to have decided that they can’t _all_ be Aevalle.

“Mister Solas!” one of them calls. “What do you fight with?”

He simply holds his hand in the air, palm up, and a ball of ice appears in the air above it—to the children’s unending delight.

“They’re not afraid of magic,” he wonders, after they have run off—approximately half of them throwing dirt and pretending that it’s ice.

She frowns up at him. _Why would they be? The Keeper’s mist spells hide us from passing ships. They’ve been around magic their whole lives._

He smiles at that—and watches the children play a little longer, something in his shoulders relaxing as he does.

Solas spends nearly every moment at her side until she can walk on her own again. Then he starts to wander the clan a little without her—but only after she promises not to overtax herself, three times—and away from the camp, a few times. Overwhelmed by all the people, she assumes, and needing his own space.

But he always comes back with something—strange flowers, odd plants, little nuts or seeds. Once he returns with a handful of grey stones that, when held under water, turn a lovely green colour. He usually asks the children what they are, and when that fails he asks Aevalle or a member of the clan.

Every day Aevalle sees him spending time with Yvena; sometimes just sitting with her and weaving fishing nets, or helping her make rope, and sometimes she leans on his arm and he walks her wherever she needs to go in the camp. She can see them chatting amiably all the while, though about what she’s always too far away to hear.

At the end of their first week he starts helping the crafter with the aravels. Aevalle wasn’t sure that boat construction was on his list of hobbies, but the crafter seems impressed enough with his labour, if not his attitude, to hand him a small jar, wrapped in dark cloth, and some brushes. The next day Solas beaches their aravel with the help of some of the warriors, and spends all morning painting swirling blue lines on all the little compartment doors and all around the boat’s interior, running along the wood on the aravel’s interior sides along the sheer.

Aevalle sets aside her own tasks for the day to watch him. He takes off his shirt when the sleeves simply will not stay rolled up, and she spends some time watching his shoulders, all the freckles that go all the way up his arms and down to the waist of his pants.

She spends some time watching the scars on his neck, too—and in the light she finds them as old, gnarled and twisted as they felt to her touch in the ocean’s depths.

He finishes when the afternoon sun is high in the sky, and as he sits down on the ground to admire his work, Aevalle slips beside him and curls an arm around his waist, tucking in next to him so she can press a kiss to his neck.

Even through the scar tissue, she can feel his pulse flutter.

“It will dry within the hour,” he starts to tell her, before he pauses. She glances up to see his brow suddenly furrow, as if something has just occurred to him. “I… should have asked if this was alright.”

She breathes a laugh, and then kisses his cheek for good measure. _I love it_ , she signs, and then she pulls away so she can get a closer look.

The lines are abstract—something she’s never seen from him before, only portraits and sketches of wildlife—but something about them seems so old and familiar to her, like she’s seen them somewhere before. She follows the figures that run on either side of the aravel’s sides, and though they are not _symmetrical_ she thinks they line up in a way, one influenced by the other, like they should come together but too great a distance stands between them.

And there, she sees one that looks an awful lot like her bracelet. A woven circle, with dots all around, and one mirroring it on the rail opposite.

She glances back at Solas, who is leaning back on his palms and smiling at her like a lovestruck fool; not a trace in his eyes of the _considerations_ that had given him pause for so long.

And it’s hard to remember her own hesitations, her own second thoughts, with him smiling at her like that. With what she guesses is the story of how two separate souls came to be so close together, so quickly, painted all along the aravel. So she goes back to him, and cups his face in her palms, and kisses him, slow and languid. He breathes a sigh into her mouth before he kisses her back, his hands coming up to rest on either side of her hips.

 

Hawen takes her aside late into their second week with the clan.

“Solas tells me that your… contract with the Inquisition has been fulfilled.”

She frowns a little, tilting her head to the side. Strange that Solas would discuss it with Hawen before her—they haven’t talked about it at all, let alone what comes after the clan is ready to move. They’ve talked about magic, and spirits, and the Dalish… the past, she supposes. But not the future.

Hawen interrupts her thoughts, then, by handing her something—hunting sealskin and matching footwraps, similar to her own but for a larger figure, much taller and broader of shoulder.

“I trust you can make the appropriate adjustments,” he says, as she turns them over in her hands. “He was… not forthcoming when I tried to confirm my suspicions, so I think he would take this gift better from you. He is… named aptly, I suppose.”

She looks up again, and finds his eyes crinkling with a fondness that surprises her a little as he looks off into the distance.

She can’t help but glance down at the high collar of the old Keeper’s vest under the cotton factory made shirt he wears.

“The crafter has informed me that we are ready for First Launch—and the hunters have gathered nearly enough for the feast, so we will have it tomorrow night. Afterwards, we will journey south at first light… and there is a place in the clan here, for you and Solas, should you wish to join us.”

His expression is earnest, and his smile easy.

Someone calls his name, and he clasps a hand over her shoulder.

“Think on it, _da’len_ ,” he says, before turning and walking away.

The sun hangs low on the horizon when she finds Solas, preparing to launch their aravel for the night.

“There you are,” he says, barely glancing up at her before he looks back down at the rope he is busy coiling. “The lead hunter was looking everywhere for you—though she settled for asking me to invite you along on tomorrow’s fishing trip. I asked when she wished to leave, but she looked down her nose at me and insisted that you _would know_.”

When he looks up for her response, she slings the sealskin over her shoulder. _She’s still a little sore over your argument, then._

“It was not an _argument_. I simply informed her that her prayer for true spear throwing was improperly phrased and grammatically incorrect.”

She shakes her head at him, and he has the good sense to look a little embarrassed. His cheeks colour, and he glances down at his hands once more. She gets a good look at him, and sun-bronzed and spattered all over in freckles, dark stubble showing on his scalp, it seems as if the lines of his face are softened, somehow. Yes, he’s still high cheekbones and sharp jaw, but there’s something about how freely he smiles, here. As if the sea and the sun have eased his shoulders; as if the salt air has teased the worry from his features.

His pale eyes stand out a little more, she thinks, as his gaze finally meets hers again. She likes it.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, finally. “These are your people, and I know… I have been trying but I should not have…”

_It’s not me you have to apologize to, Solas_ , she reminds him.

His lips twitch upward. “I do not care for the lead hunter’s good opinion. Now,” he says, stepping out of the aravel, “we have some light left in the day, if you would like to refresh your sailing technique.”

She inclines her head. _And that it would lead us away from the clan at sunset is a coincidence._

“A happy one, I would think.”

She takes a step closer. _I think we would miss dinner._

His eyes crinkle, and his voice pitches lower. “I have provisions on the boat.”

Dinner _and_ all the fireside stories, she does not say—she has pretended, so far, not to notice that he often wanders away for the stories of the gods, or of the Dread Wolf. She can guess he might feel a little sympathy for a character severed from the sea he was born to.

She has heard all the stories before—and told them almost as many times. She’s missed these tellings with an ache in her heart since the loss of her clan, but tonight she finds she does not mind.

Solas has to help her raise the mast; she still shakes too much to manage it on her own. But she climbs it easily enough to secure the sail—and it’s strange but it feels different under her hands than she remembers. Older, maybe. Worn by different storms.

Her hands tie familiar knots, and though this aravel is built slightly differently than her clan’s—higher sides, broader sails—her feet find purchase on the rail easily enough. The ropes under her hands are twisted a little differently, the boxes for carrying belongings and provisions in different places, secured by knobs and ties instead of sliding wooden panels.

She guides the aravel away from the others by oar. Solas does not use magic to help her, as she paddles them through the wooden homes her people have built for themselves. When they are far enough away, she tugs on a rope and lowers the sail—and it catches a breeze, steady and strong, and the aravel lurches into motion with a familiar tug. She shifts her weight without even really thinking about it, and reaches back to secure the rope without looking.

Cool salt air burns her nostrils. Orange and gold light glitters on the ocean, mirroring the sky. Solas leans on one side of the boat and drags his fingers in the water as he looks to the sunset, and he must not think she’s watching him because she can see the sorrow back in his eyes, turned a soft purple in this light. She can see it in the sunken line of his shoulders, in the downward curve of his lips.

She looks back over her shoulder—and little Melena is standing on the shore, watching them go. Far enough away now that Aevalle only knows it’s her by the giant puffball of her hair.

And she knows. Knows in her heart as surely as she knows that Solas will not stay with this clan, even if she asks him to. Something is different, something has changed. It’s not the sail, and it’s not the aravel—and it’s not the clan, who _almost_ feel like the family taken from her and have welcomed her with open arms…

It’s her.

She closes her eyes, and lets out a breath—and with it, a heaviness like mourning settles on her shoulders.

She turns from Melena, from the clan, and guides the aravel along the coast of the island.

They anchor the aravel in a little cove, only the moon and stars to see by. The rocky shore nearby is interspersed with bushes and shrubs, and seagrass that sways in the wind, the sound of their movement indistinguishable from the slow lapping of waves on stone.

The ocean is calm, the breeze gentle. She secures the sail, and Solas watches the way the wind plays with her hair about her shoulders.

_Hawen wanted me to give this to you,_ she signs, and then offers him the sealskin.

Solas takes it hesitantly. He turns it over in his hands, and unfolds it before letting it rest in his lap.

“Were there any strings attached?” he wonders.

_None_.

“He didn’t ask you to…”

He trails off. An inscrutable expression crosses his face, and his brow wrinkles as he tries to speak again, but the words seem to fail him.

_Could I?_ she asks, finally. _Do you think I could help him, too?_

Solas sighs. He passes a hand over his face—and then he finally looks back up at her, confusion and worry written all over him.

“Vhenan,” he says, softly. “Vhenan, I have _no idea_ what happened down there. I only know that the moon was full, that we were at a depth and in waters no mortal creature has seen for untold ages. And that it very nearly killed you.”

She looks down at her hands and bites her lip.

Solas reaches over, and with a gentle touch on her chin, guides her eyes back up to his. Smiling, he says, “I know that whatever you did, you saved me. More than my life—vhenan, you have given me back something I was _certain_ was lost to me forever. But I would never want it back, if it meant even a chance of losing you.”

She reaches up and rests her palm above his heart. He lets out a breath, and then reaches up and places his hand over hers.

“I know it’s selfish,” he says, and his voice breaks. “But— _please_. Let that secret stay in the deep.”

She exhales—and Solas wipes away a tear trailing down her cheek with his thumb.

“Now,” he says, “I believe I promised you dinner.”

After their meal, he tries on the sealskin, though it takes significant convincing to get him to do so. When he finally agrees, it’s with a fondness in his expression that tells her he’s only doing it to please her.

She keeps the boat steady as he changes clothing. He stands at the end of it, balanced a little unsteadily and with one hand on the mast to support him, for her to examine properly.

And she does—thoroughly. With long, sweeping looks up his thighs, and an admiration for the stitching, which has all been dyed a muted green. The fit is overall a little loose in some places, but it’s nothing she can’t adjust when she has more material and tools to work with.

With the coral and shark tooth still hanging around his neck, and the stubble growing on his head, he looks… almost wild, like this. Like someone completely removed from portraits, fortresses, and a world of industry.

By the time her gaze has swept over him, the tips of his ears are delightfully flushed.

_What do you think?_ she asks him.

He clears his throat. “The… footwraps are nice, I suppose.”

She shakes her head at him. _They fit better than what you’ve been wearing for two weeks, and that’s all you can say._

“Ah. Well… that is to say…”

She can’t help but roll her eyes. _Get in the water._

His flush darkens. She finds her own cheeks warm a little, in response.

But after a moment’s hesitation, he obeys. He jumps off the boat with a shallow dive, which she gets to admire, and then he swims back and treads water as she leans over the rail.

“They are now wet,” he informs her, though he looks too amused to even sound cross.

_Show me?_ she asks. _Please_.

He exhales, and she knows she does not have to specify. “ _Ma nuvenin,”_ he says, his pupils blown wide.

She watches as scales begin to dot his skin—most of them a silver-grey, with a subtle shine in the moonlight that just looks like the water’s reflection, at first. The ones that appear on his chest are lighter, almost white, and the fins that form on the end of his tail are less broad than hers, and while they flow in the water they seem to have less movement than most she has seen.

Where there were scars on his neck moments ago, now there are only scales, and gills fluttering in the water.

He blinks, and his pupils narrow to slits before they widen again, adjusting to the light.

“Are you going to join me,” he asks, “or are you just going to watch me swim circles around the boat all night?”

She grins at him—and, instead of replying, reaches down and pulls her shirt over her head.

She dives in, and as cool water rushes over her skin it slowly turns to scales. Then it rushes through her gills, and she’s kicking with a tail instead of legs, and she turns in a wide, lazy circle so she can see Solas. Just below the water’s surface, behind her, and watching her with wide, alert eyes.

She smirks up at him, and when she completes her circle she kicks once, and then she is darting along the ocean floor. She swims out to the kelp forest swaying in the current and slips inside.

All manner of little creatures flee the kelp she disturbs, though she doesn’t pay them much mind. The moonlight glitters on their scales as they flit away, and as she slows she looks up at the alternating shadow and light as the kelp sways, as the rush and retreat of the ocean pulls it towards and then away from the shore.

Solas is not far behind her—he circles down from above, the only warning she gets of his approach the flash of silver as his scales catch the intermittent moonlight. They circle one another as they slow, the only sounds around them the rush of water through the kelp, and her heartbeat in her ears. And she looks him up and down—her gaze lingering as she admires the transition from light to dark scales, the strength of the muscles moving under them, and especially the flush at the tips of his ears.

_Satisfied?_ he signs—though she knows he has some spell for speaking underwater. Maybe he is not particularly inclined to break the silence surrounding them.

_You’re beautiful_ , she signs, making sure she takes her time splaying her fingers over her face. Her eyes meeting his and not letting him look away the whole while.

His eyes widen, and the blush deepens.

Before she loses her nerve, she signs, _I love you._

He opens his mouth—and shuts it again, and though he seems stunned he cannot hide the delight in his eyes.

She closes the distance between them, and his lips find hers as her hand presses flat to the scales over his heart. _My heart_ , she thinks, as his eyes flutter closed, as he drags his lips over hers. _My heart_ , she thinks again, as she takes his trembling lower lip between her teeth.

He pulls back just enough to mouth _ma vhenan_ against her lips. He mouths it again as he pulls her closer, holds her tight, and their hearts race against each other’s chests. The relentless pull of the ocean on her soul is nowhere near as strong as the call of his heart to hers; and for once, it is _enough_ just to hold him. With the waning moon and swaying kelp and the rush of water surrounding them, held so tight to him that she can hardly tell where she ends and he begins—

He is alive. He is here—and that is enough.

 

Solas watches from a grassy knoll as Aevalle sits down at the water’s edge.

Melena is with her—giggling every time the waves lap at her toes, and trying to imitate whatever Aevalle is signing. The sun is low in the sky, and the angle of it is such that he cannot make out what they are saying to one another—only that Aevalle is smiling, and she keeps biting her lip and shaking her head, or nodding.

Melena is young, and eager. She only grins back and tries again.

There is a net he’s meant to be weaving before him, but his hands rest on the grass instead. The wind blowing on his face is warm and gentle, and it is teasing at Aevalle’s hair so pleasantly that he cannot look away even for a moment—except to stare at her shoulder, intermittently exposed by her loose shirt collar.

The light is just so, that she looks like she’s glowing, red hair aflame. Another moment he finds an urge to capture; but he thinks he will settle for his memory instead of paint, this time.

She is laughing without sound—and Melena giggles again, and his heart feels warm enough that he almost does not notice the woman who appears at his side. Suddenly there, where there was only air before.

“I never would have thought you interested in so simple a dream, old wolf,” she says.

Solas inclines his head. “Perhaps you do not know me as well as you think.”

She does not reply. He finally looks up at her, as sideways as he can manage, and sees an elven woman, a crown of twisting black coral in her shock of white hair. She wears armour forged from dragon scale, from which flows down translucent fins like a gown made of fine silk, and a necklace of abalone, sharped to a wicked point and glittering in the sun.

“Why are you here?” he asks, finally.

She spares a glance down at him, golden eyes flickering once to him before focusing again on Aevalle. “I felt a change,” she replies. “And a spirit whispered to me—and I came to see for myself if it was true.”

“And?”

She looks pointedly down at his neck. And he watches her consider what to say, as her brow furrows for a moment, and her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“What happened down there?” she asks.

It is his turn to hesitate. “I do not know,” he answers, truthfully.

She does not appear to like that answer. But her expression smooths over, and she says at length, “Then we should take this as the blessing it is.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I thought I made myself clear when we last spoke.”

“Come now, Solas,” she says, with a displeased huff. “You were always meant to be more than a mere spy. Or do you wish to keep pretending our goals are not aligned?”

He knows they are—that she is right. But he finds that his gaze lingers on Aevalle instead, and again he hesitates to answer as he stares at the strip of sealskin she keeps around her neck.

_How long does she have_ , the spirit in the deep had taunted, _until the power in her throat kills her?_

“Only together can we both get what we want,” she continues, as if he is not lost in thought. “Just consider—”

“On one condition.”

She manages to reign in her obvious surprise at being so brusquely interrupted after half a heartbeat—and to suppress the rage that flits across her features.

He gestures to Aevalle. “You leave her out of this. Out of all your plans, your machinations—she’s suffered enough. Just… let her be.”

He watches as she turns her gaze once more to Aevalle—who has noticed them speaking now. She’s glancing between them, half-rising from the sand, hand slowly reaching for the weapon at her side.

His old friend considers Aevalle for a moment longer, raising a single brow at the spear. “How do you know she will not simply involve herself, with or without my influence?”

He does not even flinch. “Swear it.”

She narrows her eyes. But after a moment, she smiles, and looks back down at Solas. “Of course,” she says. “If that’s what you truly wish, I’ll leave the girl in peace.”

Solas’s shoulders slump, and the tension in his stomach eases. “What would you have me do?”

Mythal’s lips curl into a wicked smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In return for the straight up Trama (tm) of the last few chapters, here have a whole chapter of fluff. Please have your teeth checked for cavities after reading.
> 
> ALSO I ALMOST FORGOT, I'm sure you all have seen this by now but the great and kind Nipuni has graced us all (mostly me) with [some sketches of the last chapter](http://nipuni.tumblr.com/post/173076945495/dinoswrites-you-have-me-clutching-my-chair-every). I'm... gonna start a fanart wall in my apartment team, it's gonna happen.
> 
> [cedarmoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons): as ur beta, i think u should expand this ending because it seems a little abrupt as a section ending; as a fan who adores ur writing, i think u should expand this ending because i want more fluff and i don't have diabetes yet, u need 2 fix that
> 
> playwithdinos: I am writing more into that scene you thought i should  
> playwithdinos: and when I was writing it I was like "there is too much kissing in this chapter it's ridiculous"  
> playwithdinos: apparently not  
> cedarmoons: ???? there is NO SUCH THING as too much kissing???  
> cedarmoons: what kind of fanfic writer ARE you

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [playwithdinos](http://playwithdinos.tumblr.com/) or [dinoswrites](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/).


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